Suddenly life seems long,
stretched out.
Scenes I'd forgotten
display on an internal screen.
Could these memories be mine?
Do they belong to another me?
They're intangible.
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, heartache and happiness.
Could I be so cruel
to dismiss their life in my actions, my passions,
to dismiss that they've produced the man
I see in the mirror