My name. Who knows my name? Identity. A fuzzy, treacherous identity. No identity. Anon — a non identity. I feel sudden panic whenever I tell my name. Because how do I know I’m really me? Will I die if I’m killed? If I have no food, will I starve? What if my needs go unfilled? Then who will I be? Gentle lapping. A wave. On a sea of names crashing. Check marks. Move on. Next in line. My DNA, my fingerprints. My birth certificate. All a part of me. And lock up the delusional part of me that doesn’t know who it is. Lock up the inner lunatic. The Inner Lunatic will scream in a corner while the part of me that’s just a name puts her butt in the right seat and does as she’s told. A part of me. Never mind the rest.

People speak of me, don’t know what they’re talking about. Speak of me as an individual with separate opinions, a distinct soul. But they are wrong. I am not distinct. I am not that brave. People speak of me, don’t know what they’re talking about. I miss every ball thrown to me. I break everything I try to repair. I don’t know who I’m reaching out to. People speak of me. Sometimes. But not in the light of themselves. Speak of me, speak of my breeches and breaking points. My weak points. Distinct. I’m bound to be distinct. Speak of souls. It was a soul I held. I guess. But I wake up from nightmares of nonsense. Good dreams scare me. They’re too fake.

People speak of Lydia.

The name of a girl. I try to talk. But not about who I am. Or who I am not.

What have I forgiven and forgotten? What have I invented? What lies have I told? All lies. What will make me a truth teller? My heart is shaped like a throbbing longing, longing to beat in another chest. Jests, jokes. Pretending. To fit in.

I may only exist in silence.

What have I said that I haven’t been taught? What photograph of me hasn’t had to capture, bend, and distort light?

All fortunes are jests. Still looking. I guess. Like a child searches the sand for ancient treasure. Real. Am I real? If I’m not real, what is real?

Forget real. All is a reel. A film reel. I’m a series of images. Because I only exist in my memory. So of course I don’t know who I am! I’m not living my life. I’m watching a movie. I may forget three quarters of my life, but the images that stand out the most will remain. Isn’t it fine to sail down this river? A river never stops. Not like the crumbling houses on the land, flows the majestic and serene and ancient river. It has life in it but nothing fixed. Nothing abides in the river but is taken away. And I feel a lot like a river. All memories shifting from dark to light, light to dim, dim to dark, dark to dawn …and again, and again, and again.