Suddenly life seems long,
stretched out.
Scenes I'd long forgotten
display on an internal screen.
Could these memories be mine?
Do they belong to another me,
because they don't feel tangible.
How can it be
that I was that person and ended up me?

People I haven't thought about in a millennia
now dance across my vision,
telling me their secrets,
their heartache and happiness.
Could I be so cruel
as to dismiss the fact that they
live in my actions,
my passions,
that they've produced the man
I see in the mirror?