It’s hard,
sometimes,
to think back
and remember
the person I was.
Occasionally,
I am
ashamed of her.
Occasionally,
she is
ashamed of me.
I suppose that we
are often both right
about the reasons
for our shame, but
I also suppose that we
should be more forgiving
of one another.
She didn’t know
what I do,
and I
am still learning.
I already read this. What is it about you that makes me go this far back looking for who you are? Again?
I am a riddle wrapped in a mystery, shrouded in enigma. Completely inexplicable, remember?
I won’t soon be forgetting…