I prod the funeral pyre of my ego br with a sturdy stick. br One made of a question br that is most dear to my heart and soul. br Skilfully mixing unburnt stubbornness br with leafy insubstantial claims. br Leaping flames gather force br the heat causing some recoiling br as it streams upon my face. br Mysteriously one knotted log br grows in size and has the name of pride. br The stick continues about its work br and as I begin to understand br the nature of the work at hand br stick and log they both burn too. br I am left to simply stand br with nothing here remaining in my grasp br and watch the embers gently glow br as I see that ego go.