The staples of our lives, nailed to the pillar of our selves.
The parts of yourselves left behind. Like lost echoes. Small details. The person once living in those old familiar places. Now, never visited again or completely gone. The house of our childhood. That person you were in high school. Memories of lovers.
Or maybe it’s the people. All the people that pass through our lives. Are they the ones lost, left to the past? A detail in our memory, a part of our history, as we change and age. How lost or forgotten are we to them? Old friends no longer in contact.
And the pieces of the past disappears a little more. Lost details of whom we once were.
I sit and stare out at the person I use to be. Wanting to shake hands, and meet who I was, or going to be. That is not me, how I used to be, strange familiarity. I wonder what my past self would say about the present me.
Piling details, moments, and subtleties lost unable to return. Grasp out, our lives are written in disappearing ink, in a book yet unfinished.
We are passing strangers to ourselves.
