As I enter old age, more and more of my past seems to have been lived by a stranger – an alien. Alien to my now-self, at least. Some green-veined being that has used me for its skin? Or just another hube, indistinguishable from me? Same appearance, perhaps; same name, height, weight, marital status, BMI, SSN, DOB, resume of schools and jobs. But that was not me. That was a something. The something and I share most of the same memories, a few friends. Even the same likes and dislikes (cornbread and sweet potatoes, respectively).
Whatever I was, was someone else.
[“I am conscious of becoming alien…” – Georges Bataille]
[“hube” = human being. Generally considered derogatory.]
Memorable Fancies 
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