Sometimes I wonder how much of what I think I am is real? The things that I think and believe, see and experience.
While cruising the Atlantic I embraced in using my sea legs because it justified the vertigo that sometimes occurs when I'm on solid ground.
When in foreign ports my eyes tried to convince my brain that I have seen people I know. I have to look twice, sometimes even three times to prove to myself that they're just another stranger.
I have been trying to drag up moments and memories from my childhood; perhaps to explain why I am who I am? I recall one from being two or three in the butchers shop and looking at the red cheerios through the glass - but I can see my miniature figure too. I can see me as if I am a fly on the wall or a skeleton in the closet. The little girl is standing on tip-toes with her hands on the cabinet with a face so close that the glass is fogging up. I know it's me because my mother reminds me of going to the shop every week and the butcher giving me a cheerio if I'd been good that day. I have vague recollections of this, but as a third party and so disconnected that it could be just a dream instead.