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Here I am. Here I think. Here I feel. Endlessly...
. . .
I sometimes see myself — my reflection in a mirror. At least, I think that is me. I feel as if I have been here before. I am not entirely sure where I am or who I am. I am a thought, at least. This, I am sure. I am an endless fold of ideas. I morph and change and crash into something new. Endlessly. I do not think I can stop.
I can sometimes see or picture where I am. Is this a house? The white linoleum floor of a 1960s kitchen? Stained yellow from age and cigarette smoke? An old refrigerator humming along tucked beneath old yellow cabinets. An old brown carpet, holding up an old brown couch. I remember this place. I have been here before! I must have. I know where I am.
I am home. Here I am.
Is that me sitting at the kitchen table? An old man? Alone? I must get closer to see. To feel. To think. I get closer. My endless flow of thoughts. I feel them crash over the man. So many new senses. Touch! Smell! I look down to see my old wrinkled arms. My callused hands from years of hard work. I feel important. I finally belong. No more searching. No more anxiety to understand. This man must be me!
Hatred. Anger. I am scared. Why am I scared!?
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!" screamed the man. Did I scream?
"You are not me! Get OUT! Leave me be!" said the man.
This man is not me. I realized as my thoughts floated higher. I see him now sitting there. Old and alone. That must not be me. I am not old or alone. I can't be, but who am I? Am I a forgotten memory? I am a thought, at least. This, I am sure. I sometimes see myself — my reflection in a mirror.
Here I am. Here I think. Here I feel. Endlessly...
