The Insistence of Id

It arrives unbidden,
like the sharp caw of a crow,
piercing morning air.
The id—insistent, loud,
demanding its due,
as if the world owes it
every beam of sun,
every ripple of lake.

It swells in the chest,
an urgent tide of I am, I must, I deserve.
But listen: The woods breathe without names.
The finch takes nothing more
than a crumb of sky,
its heart unburdened by worth.

What is the self
but a flicker on the stream,
a shadow on the bank?
Let the wind take it,
let it scatter to the reeds,
where whispers live quieter
than any voice shouting mine.

Breathe slow,
as trees do,
each exhale surrender,
each inhale gift—
given, not claimed.

Here, in this clearing,
the id thins like fog,
its insistence fading.
And you—no longer its prisoner—
are free to be nothing,
and everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​