My consciousness is an egg fresh-hatched,
its shell the limit of my awareness.
Contained within this brittle yet unyielding
and beautiful – smooth, shapely ovoid –
incubating encasement of ignorance
(beyond which lies God knows what)
is all of which I can conceive.
In here, there’s the white, and there’s the yolk, and there’s me.
By me, I mean my self, obviously,
as vigorously I embryo grow,
develop, mature, going through my changes
dwelling in the white, voraciously
feeding on it and the energy-rich yolk until…
Sufficiently (albeit barely) fully formed,
I am ready for…
I’m not sure.
But I suspect
that, outside the egg,
it will not just be me and my food.