Multiverse

This journal entry dated
fourteen years back
doesn't sound like me,
but I remember writing it.
The sloppy half-script arises
from wavering dedication
to the subject;
my sarcasm was so blunt.

Dog-eared by pretty,
the journal with a red floral border
and a white decanter on each cover
is a coffin of sorts.
Once, 11-17-97 was
the javelin tip of
my blood, flesh, and breath.
Today, it's but a scale among scales,
a measure among measures,
curled up as tightly as its brethren
nestling in perpetuity.

I can't quite put my finger on
this relation to a past self -
the present is so seamless,
while history's iterations
unfold like paper dolls
linked side-by-side.
The devil on my shoulder wants
to ask do we know her?
Sure, we shared some memories
but - that's not who
we are anymore. After all,
Descartes wasn't
because he thought.

But the angel pipes up
he was no amnesiac either.

I think
I must be an illusion.
Truth is, I don't know
if pulling on the thread
will just unravel this
whole damn pattern.