This place has grown, I believe I'm old. I hadn't realized I was a bud in a ball of mud, a gigantic globe that believed in aged dreams: who I am, who I see, I can use my memories, but I forgot… I forgot! Who am I? My skin looks old, but I'm still a bud full of mud, full of goals. I want to be taught again as if I had never been born. Let me free from these fairy nightmares that tell me I have always free from… No more! I ask the questions, see the mud, and see the bud, see the ball, see the old become timeless love. Observe with attention, who are you? who am I? where are you? where is the mud that molds your face as you grow old?
How many times we forget about the possibility of losing our memories completely, and becoming a stranger to yourself. How can we really become “someone” whose identity is not reduced to memories? How can we really be ourselves if time goes by and we don’t look at ourselves deeply?