This is the day I deal with these fragments of memory plaguing my idle thoughts. It sometimes feels like my head is now too bloody full of these other people's thoughts, of their lives, to be able to separate them from my own. But they're. Not. Real. This is real. This, everything all around me. My desk, my chair, my flat. My muddy boots sitting by the door. My coat that smells of horses. These things are good. They are, once again, real. The rest, well. Perhaps they're not fancies. Perhaps they are real lives of real people, or were. Whatever the case, they are not relevant to my life now. Even if it's true that all of those people are me, I cannot live this life according to their experience. That wouldn't be logical, would it? And I'm not even going to touch that one life. It's preposterous, it's what it is. Except I think I recognized someone from that life in the here and now. What twist of fate would bring us both here, in this lifetime? Were we supposed to meet again? The funny thing is, I remember them in some of these other lives too. The faces, they change but for the eyes. I can always recognize them by their eyes. Is this a cruel joke of fate? Isn't that funny that all those New Agey truisms that used to make me laugh now turn out to have a seed of truth to them? I did recognize them by their eyes, didn't I? What a bloody grand mess.