I go through so many versions of myself.
I flip through them like the pages of a book.
Turn them over like flipping pancakes.
Shuffle through them like a deck of cards.
I fall in love over and over.
It's so wonderful at first.
These versions bring me joy, provide me with smiles.
They give to me the strength to get through the day.
But then.
I get tired.
The version no longer entertains me.
It is inevitable.
It happens every time.
I do not need this "me" any longer.
It serves no purpose.
I have sucked the life, color, and warmth right out of it.
So it is discarded.
And another "me" is made.
Occasionally, I look behind me and see this winding road.
It stretches so far.
I cannot see where it begins.
But I can see the versions.
They are everywhere.
Corpses of myself, shed like skin I have outgrown.
They litter the sides of that long road.
They are strewn all along it.
The graying shells line the road for as long as I can see.
And I'll gaze at one.
And a memory will be stirred.
And a momentary high is had.
But then it fades.
And I am left with only myself and the corpses and the road.
I wonder what would happen if I had a needle and thread?
What would happen if I strung the shells together?
Sewed them up so tight that they fused, mixed, became inseparable.
What would they become?
Often, I answer myself with my best guess.
A broken, confused person.
With no sense of direction.
One who is lost.
And then I think.
Maybe that's what I am.
