Myths of Being One of Many Beings

The addled brain shoves the thoughts
Like a push broom shoves the dust.
Little bits of fluff fly up.

Most often they drift away,
Back to the floor of the mind,
Subconscious again a while.

A few settle in your face—
Fragments of conversations
That never really happened,

Sometimes almost remembered
As more or less complete scenes,
Characters with narrative.

This is a new kind of myth,
Awareness like a complex
Of down-market apartments,

Doors and windows left ajar,
Voices, TVs, radios
Drifting along the stairwells,

You maybe in your kitchen,
Listening, but no—startled
Awake again, eyes alert

For a moment—what was that?
Whose lives were you making up,
Whose fictions were you soothing?