i do not know this person

who will not shut up

this person inside my head

who endlessly tells stories

who relives the past

who spins tales about the future

none of which come true

if there is only one of me

then i must be in a never ending conversation with myself

which is never a good sign

why is it impossible to be here now?

the past lives only in our reconstructed memories

the future lies only in our imagination

is this never ending conversation

a debt that must be paid

for being human?

Copyright Michael Douglas Scott