I carry analog collections of myself
From moment to moment
With imperfect memories
And slightly altered desires

Now here’s the mystery
How much of me
Must there have been
To retain my identity

my regrets collect in my heart
like acid rain
engulfing and destroying
the nice memories

Am I but a shadow, a silhouette?
If I step into the light, will I reveal myself
Or will I disappear?

Do I exist between worlds of light?
Am I just a bookmark betwixt meaningful pages?
Or do I inhabit a unique world of my own?

Has my ego been fabricated
By life-long skewed narration
Were analyses properly weighted
To account for complex variation

Can one know if such revelation
Is possible to discern
When id dictates self-adulation
Deception lies at every turn

I suppose I must accept the inevitable.
I’ll never fully meet myself,
ever a stranger to me and others,
an unread book upon the shelf.

- But in retrospect, I was never up to *****
  Of all the stuff
  I never loved enough