As an empath, there’s a fog inside me that never clears.

I wait for the day I can watch my memories on a vivid screen,

and binge on them like I would do with a modern show.

I wait to meet all the versions of me

as they wrote my present,

as they felt my feelings,

as they weaved moments of fiction,

that turned into a reality.

I wait to meet all my empaths,

young and older,

naive and mature,

warm and colder,

and watch them as they blunder,

collapse and cry in wonder,

and marvel at their actions,

in an attempt to understand it all.

I wait for the day I can watch my memories on a vivid screen,

especially the ones where I was in solitude,

surrounded by lyrics, melodies, and stories,

of total strangers.

I wait for the day where I can talk

to these versions of me,

and clear the fog inside,

created by everyone else’s emotions,

seeping gently inside.