I am large. I contradict myself. I am multitudes.(Whitman). My own deepest truth contains it’s opposite deep truth. Actually I make up all my truth, all my poems.
In the end all my poems cancel out my truth. My deep truth is also my deep lie ,which I have just made up. I have made up all my words. My words contradict me? Actually I contradict them.
Because like Whitman I am large and do contain multitudes. Do I contradict Whitman? So be it. Will he be unhappy in his happy lack of house? Like other unhappy people in unhappy lack of houses? Actually he is a happy Whitman who has since vacated his happy house. That was how he could contradict himself in all his multitudes .
But I am not that large. I make up my own small contradictions. They are my myth.