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Who Are We?

Who are we, if not a collection of our memories?
I am the baby on the window,
The girl on the floor,
The teen who could always love more—
Full of hopes and dreams,
The woman who lost a child,
Yet still learned how to sing.

I am a multitude of me(s) and her(s),
Confounded into one:
I am— the one
or was,
Just a second ago;

Now I am already someone new.
For now, I think of things I did not consider minutes before.
Am I still me? Yes. Yet, I am not.

Who are we, if not a collection of our thoughts
And memories?
Do you recall?
I think I remember me—
But who was I then,
When I was the girl on the floor?
I know she wanted more—
I still do, and so does she.
By allowing myself to remember her,
I get to learn more about me.

The question remains: who are we,
Without our past lives, selves, and memories?
I remember now. I remember her!
I close my eyes and see her clearly—her, me—
"Hello, little one, come here, child. I’ve finally found you, the truest form of me!"
By protecting her memory and reigniting her hopes and dreams,
I finally rescued me.

Who Are We?
We are a collection of thoughts and ancestral memories,
Yearning to be set free!