The skies are empty and bleak. I'm inbetween projects, on the bridge of one day passing into the next, and I've lost myself in that question. This new approaching day is a mystery, and I have no sense of what the last was.
There is no 'me' to speak of. I am the sum of thoughts and emotions that react to my life, but my life is changing day to day; I am changing day to day. How can I know who I am when my world keeps changing its mind, when it's calling me by different names. I seem but a passing whim, thrust around by opposing waves, rising and crashing to the bottom.
There is no truth in this. I make my selves to fit the occasion. I tell each what to like and how to act, and so each is born, but these aren't real. My name is whispered by the wind, but I am formless until you ask me to be. Bleak, empty, and without a core, yet able to take on the illusions you seek.