“Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality – it’s all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I’m attending here is a show with another set. And the show I’m attending is myself.”
― Fernando Pessoa
Do I weave these moments, or do they weave me?
Blinking here, flickering there, caught in a breeze,
Spiraling out, or spinning in, no hint of intention.
Caught in the scope of a placid sea, a spotless reflection.
Staining me with hues of another time, another story,
Marooned on the folds of homeless memories.
I’m not me. I can’t be me, with so many faces in the sea,
Expanding the palette, with every crease,
Coloring in the vacancies, whispering their quiet diction.
Scattering the storyline, into a plotless inscription.
Moments lost and found, weeping their quiet inspiration.
Their stories become my timeless odyssey.
The flap of their wings, give rise to my stormy seas.
Oh how fickle a thing is identity