Ira

She makes me remember feeling young, playful, able. I find myself forgetting who I am, who I cannot help but be. I become for a moment what I was, what I am not. And yet here I find myself quite easily. I am good at it, as long as reality is suspended. My person, my soul, remembers things, the way one's fingers remember a piano piece. I have from YouTube a saved file of a pianist playing Ravel's "Oiseaux tristes". I know that I once played the piece, and many others. The pianist even looks like me, but he is not me. I did play that piece, and yet for all practical present purposes, I did not. I do not. I merely remember.  It is somewhere in my fingers, wandering in the maze of experience, anamnesis. Outrageous things seem for a fleeting moment not only possible but quite natural. And I fear in the midst of my charade fooling not only myself but others as well. How then to explain that I am not really here? Forgive me, my child, for I have grown old.