if you found your self fresh in this body
with this set of resources, circumstances and abilities
and this much time
what would you do?
what self?
whoever still breathes and dreams under that crusty grungy shell we think we're doomed to carry around like a costume scripted by some play we co-wrote in serious conference with long-lost co-conspirators who, it turns out, only briefly believed in freedom
there's something deep under the layers of habits
she is light and barely knows what name we've given her
she's mostly elsewhere because she doesn't know the lines or understand the character
any day she could be born again