You are staring in the fog
One eye about, the other wondering
Who are you? Who?
Why you are you?
How much of what I’ve become is choice
How much of what I’ve become is roots
How much of what I’ve become is my city
How much of what I’ve become is my friends
Everybody that were, that never were, just imaginings
Is it because of you?
All the countries that I’ve been
Are pages within me
I see your face in me
I have discarded what I didn’t want
But how does one choose what matters?
Out of the dissonant miasma
I can see clouds dissipating revealing
Sealed doors never owned, never even recognized
Yet catalyzing my feet to walk
A journey with no itinerary
Now that I’ve started this march
On the road of the past
What is The, My past?
On the corner of now, on the tip to tomorrow
Will there ever be a halt?
As I look in the mirror and wonder where you are
As I can only see my reflection
(Scripts as cultural, inter-generational, familial & personal. The past as malleable, open to changes through time & space)