Distant.

It’s strange to me, to think that I existed in past years. Maybe this is odd, or an indication that I should be in a mental ward. But when I look at things and see the date, I have a surreal moment. I look at the numbers, so simple and plain.
But they were years ago. In a time that exists now only in memory. How can I know it was real?
And those pictures, how do I know the face is mine? I remember, but how can I be certain? The face looks so distant, separated from myself. The date in the corner is like a different dimension. The things of that date blur and run together like melting ice cream. I can’t remember where one starts and the other ends. It scares me a little.
These moments are times in the past. Times gone. Dead. Distant. Lost.
What do I do with them? How do I reconcile them with the present? I am not sure.
Ten years ago, twelve years ago, nineteen…I don’t remember that person. I don’t know her. I wonder if she knows me. The things we could talk about if I met myself.
I think about all the years before my years. The stars in the sky. They have endured. They were there before I was born, and when I die, they will still be there. I will become dust in a coffin and they will continue to shine. It makes me feel small.
And it makes me feel young.
Time is a strange thing. Can't hold or touch it. Can't measure it or record it. It just is. And will be. And I'll forget and I'll remember. And the colors and images and people will run together. And time will know what happened.
And I might not.