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Did you ever look at an old photo of yourself,
and feel it must be from another lifetime,
because that person seems so far away now?
In photos we get a two dimensioned view of the past;
The past was never short of dimensions
But it is our feeling part that's missing
Old images of self are curiously cold, impassive;
Smiling or frowning, they have the same feel,
Removed from us, by time and space,
They could be a million years distant, or only one.
Is there any other way, in life
That you can stare at yourself, as an observer
And not have any idea what thoughts are present?
That is life every day, lived in a dark vacuum;
Life knowing not it's own mind, any more
Than each second, something gets born
And each second, something dies-
And is buried, without even a name.
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