Who would I be without my books?
Without my little yellow cactus plant and the shaggy carpet in my room?
Who am I without my records?
Who am I without the people I call family? Friends?
Underneath every flashing light of my so called life
What is left behind?
I chose that cactus from a shelf of hundreds.
Hand picked each book.
I have the freedom to choose which faces I wake up to each morning.
But do the choices make you
Or do you make them?