Sitting beneath the roots of trees, it occurred to me: I am never who I used to be. I cannot be defined as the boy I once was – I am a whole new me. Only memories connect me to my former selves – and in that capacity memories prick like a crown of thorns.
This illusory life I left behind years ago has come back to haunt my solitary peace. To those around me I am nothing more than that selfish creature who bore my name, my skin. They see me purely as the boy who incessantly abused and desired, who knew little but created mountains out of his molehill.
I am not him.