How much is lost?

Is it the words or the writing
that are extensions of the self?
Because I can't quite tell if
the phrases that I'm reading
represent what I really felt.

The question I can never pull
from my mind's stuck drawer
is one concerning who we are
compared to people we once were
and if we become more.

If I turned the pages backward,
revealing fresh what's been before
could I look into a mirror
by looking through the keyhole
of my younger bedroom door?

I'm not sure if I'll ever grasp
what all goes into growing.
But there's one thing that I know
and that's that the self's
not static but it's flowing.