Who might that be whom I call "me"?
A face that shifts identity.
It speaks, it claims, it takes control—
Until another’s soon in that role.

 

The “I” we trust is not the same

From hour to hour, it plays a game.

Each part declares it holds the right—

While others scheme and stir to fight.

 

So who am I in this array,
When parts take turns and drift away?
That steady eye, curious and wise—
Ix watches thought, demystifies.

 

The CEO we hope to be
Is lost in moods and mutiny.
Each "I" declares a final plan,
Undone when others rule that clan.

 

To lead, first comes the quiet art—
Of listening deep to every part.
Not to command, suppress, or fight,
But to observe and spark insight.

 

So who am I in this array,
When parts take turns and drift away?
That steady eye, curious and wise—
Ix watches thought, demystifies.

 

Ix is not the voice that shouts—
It holds no fear, it casts no doubts.
It watches how the “I”s behave,
And finds what each part gives and gave.

 

Not as a tyrant crowned by claim,
Nor just a mask that takes a name—
But as the one who calmly sees
The different selves that are displeased.

 

So who am I in this array,
When parts take turns and drift away?
That steady eye, curious and wise—
Ix watches thought, demystifies.