I wander around my own head purposely, trying and failing to pick the tangled strings apart. I close my eyes and concentrate fruitlessly on wobbling across the tightrope, towards the swaying, dispersing and dwindling soots of a silhouette of someone who was supposed to look like me. I gather the severed tatters of my goals and pour them in a broken jar, my ambition ebbing away along with the waning shambles of what's left of the path I once carved for myself in liquid melancholy. With a mirthless smile, I find myself stutter on a thought; these days I miss who I wanted to be, for I don't recognize who I've become. I stare in the mirror in the dark hollows of the rapidly blinking orbs of a stranger. I blink, she blinks but when I frown, she smiles. I cry, she cackles. I whimper, she giggles. I choke, she chuckles. I gasp, she smirks and when I die a little, she kills me more and I once again find myself grimacing in the name of a smile, mouthing: these days I miss who I wanted to be, for I don't recognize who I've become.