Narrating the life you lived up to now,
Opening up old wounds to spill on a page.
There comes this moment where these questions must be allowed,
However a disquieting philosophy it will be to engage.
In all your travels, the growing wrinkles on your brow
Note the fleeting passage of time and change,
Gleams of youth long-since hardened to boughs.
Of course, that is the natural, traditional order -
For with age comes wisdom, not often disorder.
This realization of maturity caused much distress,
How will you be remembered, your failures or success?
Ergo, you’re letting a pen tell the story you possess.
Opening the notebook causes the first of the pitfalls,
Like attempting to recall names, you asked your memory, it fails.
Do you write down snippets, hope your wit recalls?
You remember the questions I alluded at the start?
Of philosophy and psychology, and biology in part -
Unalike though joined now, for these matters of the mind, and heart.
Really, can you remember him now, without assistance?
Embers of him could remain, but each day they are halved.
Maybe he is truly gone, and with it his past existence -
And if you’re not him, what right do you have
In telling his whole life’s story, his reminiscence?
Now this is just a stray thought, not a command -
So, forge a new-old story, you don’t need my admittance.
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