Me, Myself, and I

 
We piece together random fragments, frayed  
snippets, distorted slots of memory,  
insisting on ‘what happened’ - a collage  
of bits n’ bobs flitting in a neural  
network, synapses pinging hither and  
thither, part rail-road programmed, partly lost  
in the sequence of events. Grandma died -  
when was it? Before or after the pound  
crashed against the Euro? Cells constantly  
die; new ones are born. And so it goes on.  
      Fashions in psychology demand we  
      nail it down, take command, seize the day. But  
      why capitulate to this vain crisis  
      of identity? We are consciousness  
      forever moving, shifting, changing; a  
      river, never the same when stepped in twice.