Our Self. A tapestry weaved out of memories. A single thread creates an elaborate pattern.
One event leads to the next, to the next, to the next …
With each successive stitch, we get more and more entangled in our own identity.
Slaves of the image of ourselves, we confirm it persistently, day after day.
We protect it consistently, like our sanity.
This is me. This is not me.
The train rumbles on its tracks. The clatter of wheels carries around.
Everyone knows – this is her. She is not like that.
Free only in our dreams, dancing and laughing out loud.

Who are you? I ask the women in the mirror.
I am – she answers.
As if the existence did not have to be proven.
As if you did not have to deserve it.
As if you did not have to earn it, working overtime at a tired desk.
As if you could just Be.