I am a hermit

I sit on a hill and shun the chatty world

not for un-loving, but the ancient fear of faces

mouths blabbing, eyes blanked

in the terror of being seen and deemed worthless, unwanted;

not daring to compete, having crooked teeth or a silly smile.

 

I know in my sacred core

This can be the retro-protests of ego;

That fear of appearances, the scars of infant dereliction

And the need to be accepted, wanted and heard

The inner quandaries over identity

And the desire to be respected

All quashed in Victorian guilts.

 

So I sit alone and talk to myself, write for myself.

Better to be safe and able to breathe

To safeguard my little boundaries

And sleep alone.

SAYS the gregarious creature

While cherishing the tribe and grown to accept that social contract

Even perpetuating it exclusively for family and the chosen few.

The rest is academic, on principle, in theory.

Small is beautiful  – and secure.

 

It is secure, sitting on terra firma

With my back to the wall

180 degree look-out to scan for the raiding hoards

And the automata of contact

On its merry-go-round of meaningless interaction.