When you come to a point,
you realize that you can't remember
where you've been.
Or what you've done.
Or who you were.

You pass through a door,
and it locks behind you.
You can't go back to see what you've done,
or how you've thought or acted.
You can't see anything through that door.

But you can't help staring at it,
demanding it bend to your will
and let you see what you want to see.

But the door is not a mirror.
It stops you, and blocks you,
and won't give way when you push.

You try to recall what lies beyond the door,
everything that has ever happened.
But it's too much to recall, too much to bear,
and so you can't.
You can't remember.

But you realize,
you have changed since then.
You aren't who you used to be.
You don't know who you are.

You don't think what you thought,
you don't know what you knew.
You forgot.

You can't say what you want,
you don't know what you want.
You can't remember.

And then you realize,
if only for one brief moment,
that there's nothing out there.
Nothing behind the door,
nothing in front of it.
Nothing to believe in.

And then you remember,
this isn't where
you were supposed to be.

And then you know,
something happened
that shouldn't have happened.

And then you think,
who am I
supposed to be now?