O My Soul

It's uncanny, your living crux a mirror of mine with chilling synchronicity, like two symmetrical halves of a crumpled life unfolding roughly ten years apart. I suspect you read the same books as me, but if not then certainly the books that inspired them, and if not still then I'm finally convinced there's some form of truth that's ironically formless, drifting paradoxically through ages of language, occasionally recaptured by a sightless eye and forced into words with as little irreverence for the perpetual reincarnation of the present as possible. It's futile, I know, but what else to do?