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 

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?
Signature Lina Ru