The blank page stares back at me.

I’ve been here before. Pensive, with my pen and my mind walking together alone. But first a question — Who am I? — I hear the claxon of trees and the swaying of cars. The rippling echo, the magnitude of the last spider, dangling from the disappearing act of mankind.

I’ve been here before. But first a doubt — Who do I think I am? — surely the last to say whatever I think is new. Surely the frail, the meek, the scathed, the I’m-looking-at-you-looking-at-me stranger that knows you better than she knows herself.

I’ve been here before. But first a secret — I don’t know who I am — I slept my life away, choosing and losing my dreams. My enemies were ‘must’ and ‘should’. My friends were ‘try’ and ‘again’. I have corridors for eyes and long-gone lovers run through them. ‘Night’ changes me. ‘Day’ stops me. My father is my mother, and my mother is me.

I’ve been here before. But first a cry — I am who I am — watch me long and finite casting shadows on the wall, different every hour until the dying of the light.

The blank page stares back at me.