Yesterday I wondered if I were living someone else's life.
The eggs were not what I ordered. The bus was heading
the wrong way.
My clothes didn’t fit as they should, more creases and bulges than I knew.
In the mirror, that person didn’t even notice the button undone —
which I would have, had I been there. I would have un-undone it.
At work I was wondering what I was doing,
like an intern. Only I’ve been there eight years.
For a time I was an observer, a witness to one human figure moving
through the world holding himself small, like he was trying to
leave no trace but fading footprints.
And I wonder if this soul,
moving with unseen force, is the real me?
My mother would talk about grieving in terms of fog, or smoke:
surroundings obscured and reduced to a visceral myopia.
Until one day the veil lifts and you say to yourself,
“Oh! Now I see. I was asleep the whole time.”
Then I imagine the child, the adolescent, the adult, the loner,
the misfit, the connections, the work, the struggle,
the challenge, the belonging,
the realisation, the longing.
and I wondered whether I should awake from the feeling
of living someone else’s life, or whether I have been awake
the whole time.
and what a tragedy it would be to grieve for
that which has not yet gone.
And if I can figure myself to be some other,
can I not imagine myself complete?
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 3:00 PM UTC
Yesterday I wondered if I were living someone else's life.
The eggs were not what I ordered. The bus was heading
the wrong way.
My clothes didn’t fit as they should, more creases and bulges than I knew.
In the mirror, that person didn’t even notice the button undone —
which I would have, had I been there. I would have un-undone it.
At work I was wondering what I was doing,
like an intern. Only I’ve been there eight years.
For a time I was an observer, a witness to one human figure moving
through the world holding himself small, like he was trying to
leave no trace but fading footprints.
And I wonder if this soul,
moving with unseen force, is the real me?
My mother would talk about grieving in terms of fog, or smoke:
surroundings obscured and reduced to a visceral myopia.
Until one day the veil lifts and you say to yourself,
“Oh! Now I see. I was asleep the whole time.”
Then I imagine the child, the adolescent, the adult, the loner,
the misfit, the connections, the work, the struggle,
the challenge, the belonging,
the realisation, the longing.
and I wondered whether I should awake from the feeling
of living someone else’s life, or whether I have been awake
the whole time.
and what a tragedy it would be to grieve for
that which has not yet gone.
And if I can figure myself to be some other,
can I not imagine myself complete?