Mid-line Crisis

I have no idea who I am.

This room attempts to suggest

My presence in metaphor;

Mere narrative echoes

Of a story which is only partly mine,

Although told in the first person.

I have no idea who I am.

These more or less comfortable clothes

Try to define me in outline until

Illusion is exposed by removal,

And all that lies

Is a costume on the floor.

Too much skin around haunted eyes,

Too heavy with the responsibility

Of unanswered questions

Flung back by insistent mirrors,

Of glass and flesh,

Suggests I am older than is logical.

I have not made a decision

In an hour, or forty years, or millennia.

I have simply followed or ignored words

Of unspoken voices which I took for mine.

This body has brought me here, which is fine,

But I still have no idea who I am.

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