I found an old self of mine not long ago. Odd, but I don't remember ever taking it off, or leaving it behind. Apparently, I had left it in a book I started reading last summer. I opened the cover and noticed a wisp of it peaking out between some of the pages near the beginning. It looked a bit faded and somewhat crinkled, but not too much worse for the wear, or lack of wear I should say. I took it out and looked at it for a while trying to remember what I was like when last I wore it. Rather different, I think, though I couldn't say quite how. A bit sadder, mayhap, but steady. Content, no "content" is not the right word, accepting of the where and how things are for the time. Willing enough to change, but not activly seeking change for its own sake. And yet constatly seeking, longing after something almost inexpressible, captured in moonlight and shadow, the heady sent of the rose, the cool touch of fog and mist. I smiled slightly at the remembrance of it...
On an impulse, I slipped on that old self. It still fit. Oh, it felt different in a few places, but still familiar. Some of the rough spots I remembered are gone, a few of the corners and angles have been sharpened, but on the whole I feel - myself. Funny how that can happen. The slipping on of an old self is as easy as falling asleep, the tears still moist on your cheek and the damp of them soaking into your pillow, and waking the next morning. You see the world under a new, and at the same time, familiar light...

Though one thing about an old self that I have discovered is that once it goes on, it is very difficult to get off, so I think this one will be around for a while...