Paul Moore

I am often confused with I. And yet, I am not I. Or at the very least, I am not me. I am I when I say that I am hungry. Though I am not I when I say, I kissed her in the springtime, beneath branches shaped like deer antlers that must have been of hemlocks or blue spruce. Then I am merely referring to an I that existed in the past. That I is only tangentially related to the I of the present. Though, somewhere in the depths of my memory lies incontrovertible proof that the two I’s are the same person. However, when I remember that I, it is an act of reconstruction, an admittedly flawed process.