I think there is poetry in the making of a self, of a life. 
It is the poetry of moments - 
the every day, the devastating, the delightful.
An endless collection of fodder for meaning,
each strand meticulously wrapped into the fiber of our being.

Sometimes only symbol can capture this poetry.
It is the language of the self as it weaves and wounds and reweaves,
as it uncovers lost parts of itself, 
attaches or unattaches to what it finds in and around it.

The past, the future, the present 
are with us in each moment.

We go forward only to find ourselves returning.
We get old only to realize we are back where we started. 
We walk through a door only to find a room full of doors.

The question isn’t, “Who are we?”
It’s too small a scope.

This journey is itself the answer.