I don't know who I am, what soul I have. When I speak honestly, I don't know what sincerity I speak to. I'm different from an inner me who doesn't know if the outer me exists at all...
I feel beliefs I don't have. Likewise, I'm eager enough to repudiate any perhaps. My perpetual attention to myself perpetually tips my soul with betrayals for a character that I may not have, nor does anyone think I have.
I feel multiple. I'm like a room with countless fantastic mirrors that twist to false reflections of a past reality that has not, in any form, relevance at all.
I feel a tree and its flower take me to the same conclusion. I feel I live in other people's lives, incompletely though, as if my inner being experienced all men's virtues and vices!
