Is life what is happening this very moment or is what we leave behind? As we journey from place to place and from moment to moment does the person we once were simply die?
Does the place of our birth and each place we visit cease to exist as the seasons and people change?
Perhaps as we live through our story, it is the stories we leave behind that are more real than the moments that pass by.
Maybe I am nothing more then what others think I am. Or maybe we are all the universe itself, looking inward.