Who am I? Which of me is real? The man I was, the man I am, or the man I will be?
Perhaps none. Perhaps all.
Or perhaps I am only a shadow, stretched thin between them,
never truly existing at all.
The past—ah, the past! How foolish he was!
He thought he understood life, believed in things—love, hope, meaning.
He was naïve, reckless in his convictions, blind in his desires.
He did not yet know what it means to kneel before regret,
to feel the slow, merciless tightening of time around his throat.
I hate him for his arrogance, and yet—I pity him.
For he never knew the weight that awaited him in the years to come.
And my future self—what a stranger.
Does he pity me, or does he curse me?
He waits somewhere ahead, silent, watching,
knowing already what I will choose,
what I will lose, whom I will betray.
I cannot see him, but he is there,
a judge I can never escape.
And then, there is me—the wretched creature caught between them.
I am neither innocent like my past nor wise like my future.
I am only the sum of mistakes not yet forgiven,
of choices not yet made,
of a life that unfolds with or without my consent.
Tell me, if they met—past, present, and future—
would they recognize each other at all?
Or would they simply turn away,
each ashamed of what the other has become?
