The Librarian’s Jest

Through dusty aisles of wisdom’s treasure trove,
I hunt the self with scholarly intent.
Past Plato, Jung, and sages who have strove
To map the mind — each theory heaven-sent.
The left sign points: “Your true self waits ahead!”
The right sign mocks: “There is no self to find!”
Between these poles, my reason starts to shed,
Like autumn leaves that dance upon the wind.
Ten thousand books with answers bold and true,
Each contradicts what others claim to know.
The more I read, the less I have a clue -
This cosmic joke makes wisdom’s cup overflow.
Perhaps the truth lies not in what we seek,
But in the laugh when paradox does speak.