I listened

I listened to a man speaking on the radio about forgetting who he was. Standing in a train station in an unrecognizable city, not knowing how he got there or where he intended to go, looking at other strange faces. All he understood was that he didn't understand. Searching for a mirror a reflective. Piece of his identity. He spoke about looking down at his hands wondering how many years of his life he had lived, seeking some remnants of what that life was to him, he sifted through his pockets. When and where did he put these pants on, how many days had he been living this empty way. The extreme notion of losing one's identity, by losing consciousness of our actions, missing the signs of our moment to moment existence. And perhaps the fog this man spoke of could possibly replace our conscious mind, the identity we hold so dear as it is ours and ours alone. Or perhaps it already has. The forgetting of yesternight's dream, the distant memory of dancing with a friend on that one night that felt so special at the time, that pivitol conversation that seperated you and another, and the flight of excitement that ran through your body when you chased the purple butterfly in your 5 year old heart. It is the smells and songs and touch of our present days, if we are mindful enough that can take us back to this joy. Not so much in the memory, but the feeling, as without our identity, without our history, we are feeling and feeling alone.