What if I was reading a biography and didn’t know it was
about me?
Would I recognize myself?
Am I really who I think I am?
Am I the same collection of dreams and thoughts,
inclinations and actions that I appear to be to the world?
Who could write my biography and make it the truest and best
one possible?
Would it be the one who sees me the way I do, or someone
else?
Is it possible I am just a fleeting expression across the
face of something so grand, so magnificent I cannot even conceive of its being?
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