Sometimes I think about what it would be like to assemble every part of me that exists out in the world and just try and put the puzzle pieces together. To see the parts of me that I have let out and given to or shared with others, the parts of me I let go of, the parts of me I’ve forgotten, the person other people remember me or think of me as. Too see what the world remembers me as. I just want to get them all together and put them in a pile on my bedroom floor and then just look at them one by one like the old pictures and memories that they are. They’re like echoes of me that I let out on the top of a mountain, and it’s so freeing seeing them go out into that wide and beautiful horizon. But I sometimes miss them, and I wonder about them. Some of them were bad, I think about those ones a lot. And I dislike the idea that they are out in the world, representing me. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. I sometimes feel as if they were pages in a story that have been torn off and taken away. Pages of my story. But that’s the funny part, I don’t mind that they’ve been torn off. I think about my friends and family getting together and talking about those pages of mine. The pages that I don’t really remember, and might not even have written. And to think that I have something of me with them, in them, something that I can never take back, makes me happy. I think about the strangers who think back to that one time they saw me doing or saying or looking like whatever. I think about other people finishing my story and that makes me smile a little because that thought excites me. Who knows what the final draft will look like. And that just fills my head with so many possibilities.