My ego is a clever little son of a bitch. It’s not like one of those brash cocky little bastards that runs a long the walls of a soul, shouting down at the minions below, demanding the servitude and worship of it’s owner.
No, my ego is more subtle, more cunning, more devious and understated, but just as insidious and twice as dangerous.
My ego is a game player, he loves nothing more than to clothe himself in false humility, and to proudly show the world how humble he is.
I have finally had enough of his lies, which is why my ego must die.
My ego wants to rape my creativity; he wants to steal from it everything that is good, sacred and pure.
Creativity that does not live solely for the charity of others, is a deformed, twisted obsession that ambitiously gathers and claws as much as it can for it’s own selfish gain.