Life is odd. Who am I?
The hopelessly insane or the insanely hopeless?
I dream of void, and in my fortune there is naught to see,
I wake and think of void, and all that I can find is me.

If the dreaming one wakes, yet the world is his dream,
Does he Exist outside of it, his world undone by his awaking?
Is he a dream drempt by another sleeper?
Or a figment of his own delusions, reality forsaking?

If I find out who I am, will I cease to be him?
Or will I cease to be that which I was?
If all around me, and all over me, and all beneath me is a dream,
What is real?

My mind's eye sees a thousand things,
Reality is that which we percieve is it not?
I can see the end before the beginning,
But at the end the question remains:

Who am I?

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Miraman, in the year 298 AF.