The Egoist

The egoist blew hard, he blew long. He blew all the world in his image. All the trees bent before his breath, roads straightened upon the land. People arranged themselves in blocks and rows, walking neatly, orderly, in accordance to his tastes.

The weather shone bright upon his day, and darkened at his night.

And most amazingly, truth and history were at his beck and call, sweeping in on mighty wings, pinions spread, ready to alter the world at his one word.

And so the egoist ruled. Long he ruled. Well he ruled. Oh so well.

And in the meantime, outside his bubble of his micro-universe, the world expanded, filled with truths and images uncounted, billions undreamt.

But within his world, separate planets framed his. People he saw as they saw themselves. People to whom he owed loyalty, loyalty taught before the beginning of his world.

They would send delegations, across the gulf of his blue sky, from the distant red, or blue or green orbs, arriving in splendour, seeking his counsel. Gladly gave them it, acceding to their requests for succor with wise counsel.

Then they would leave, and the world would once again roll, and sun shine, and grass smell sweet for him.

 

NOTES

Inspired by my media-filtered vision of Donald Trump.

written at a time when I recognise my own struggles with ego.

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