Bourne

It is unknown the limit of ourselves; who we are, and what we could be. The individual identity changes and morphs like the seasons and adapts itself to the environments. It varies from person to person, separate to the core. It is as clear as day, but misty to the eyes. It is hard, but soft to the touch of skin. It is tasteless and leaves you empty. It is so much and yet so little.

It is me. Why am I detached from me?