Asylum

1 minute read



Do you recall who I was before the wave of sorrowful and blissful memories hit my barren memory slate? I can tell you, it was a monsoon evening and the cloak of familiarity had just begun to vanish from plain sight, revealing a person, a stranger I no longer could accept was me. Who am I? Do I even know myself anymore?



Am I not what I see in the mirror? My eyes look the same, maybe a little more tired, experiences and stories etched in my wrinkled skin, but my still lips curl in the same fashion. The wistful remembrance of the person who has seen plenty flowers bloom throughout the seasons floods my mind every now and then. I am evolving I believe. I look the same but I feel different.



But I lament the loss of who I was as my identity lies displaced in space and time. I long to hold onto the sense of security that comes along with the fleeting images of the past. But isn’t my existence just a series of becoming and unbecoming? The present craves the comfort of a time long gone, it yearns and it grieves for days well lived, days that mould my self. But the promise of the future comforts me, another evening when I will look back on this very day, in a different skin, my eyes with the same hollows, my lips still curling in the same fashion.

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