You can find them all over town, your disowned selves.
Some are hanging in the alleyway by the nightclub looking for a distraction, others are hiding back behind the 7-11 with a bag of chips, a can of coke and a feeling of unrelenting despair.
But most are out in the open for anyone to see.
I found one of mine with bad make-up and no love walking up the street towards me, and another, probably about 8 years old, in a terrified pile of tears and snot in the office supplies aisle at Fred Meyers.
And that was just yesterday.
To be fair, there was one I saw completely head over heels in love. With a magnolia tree in bloom. Kissing it. Rubbing her face on the blossoms. She was amazing. No shame at all.

I'm always so surprised when I realize they belong to me.

So much time is spent deciding who we plan to be - choosing  wardrobes, developing our book collections, finding the right restaurants and partners and philosophies.
We hardly realize we're strewing ourselves far and wide in the process - the natural consequence when we can't actually fit through the narrow doorway of our desired identity.

When I finally remember to call them home to me again it's a painful delight.
Reunions of grief and relief
Stories of exile and long-needed rest
And each one, no matter how ugly or ruined or lunatic, brings a perception
A perception that forces me to remember what is true.