Where does my ego flee when wounded by intellectuals… to lick my wounds. It runs to that dark cave where lives a monster whose name is imposter. It lies in wait to further disembowel what is already dying.

My cries for help to one on the road passing by:

“Feeling kind of… Uh huh. Mmm mmmm. Yep. Nope. ‘Cause I know nothin’ ’bout sports, less ’bout music, even less ’bout movies and TV, zip about Judaism, Islam, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Occultism, Activism, zero ’bout philosophy, geography, photography, cartography, biography, cardiology, musicology or any other -ology or cracy or sophy or ism… or so it feels to me tonight.”

I just want to be quiet.

My cries are heard. To this fellow traveler:

“My challenger thinks I’m hallucinating.
But one knows how one feels.

Was it my monster insecurities raising ugly multiple sepentine heads to eat the blood of my dying, intellectual road-kill ego? Yes! It always is and your crystal clear words of wisdom soothing and healing what’s left of my ailing heart where the wounds from its teeth bit deep. I will make it, since I embarked on this steep climb of my choosing. Battered and torn with my ego nearly dead but my heart still beating, I will arrive but better, much better for it.”

I escape the cave and walk on…