How can I tell mine if I can’t find it? If I’m still out with lanterns. If the questions are burning, burning, burning—and the omniscient narrator, the one with all the answers, is nowhere to be found. What I’m living and experiencing is my life, but what about the rest? If I know so little about the life I’ve called my own, if there are blank spaces I can’t fill in, can I still call it my life? Can I still claim it as mine?
