The Revisionist

The outside is calm and quiet, and he can almost hear faint notes of a
melody sinking into the dark, into his heart, out in the cold but only
in his mind. His arms reach out like the years into the past with its
glories and its tears. His mouth moves but the words stay inside,
swirling around and around just like time  seems to do. And in this
moebius strip of recycled plotlines he looks for the bits to rearrange
into a history of his own. With the details lost forever in the
patchwork of a memory sometimes too eager to forget, he collects, shapes
and forms all these things he's never seen, but he vaguely remembers. In
the end he stands complete, in this void and senseless chasm that stands
somewhere between what we are and what we feel.