An Artifice Addict's Attempt at Non-fiction

I look down. I’m not sure why. Who am I?

I'm stumped. Used to be? Want to be? Should be?

Perhaps they’re some answers I can supply,

At least those are the mountains I can see,

Even if they seem distant and hazy.

As for the one I’m climbing, I can’t say.

I’m moving and I change, but in small ways,

Ones too hard to perceive just on their own.

Staring at my feet, stay the course or stray,

We’ve done our share of both, next is unknown.

*****

Grappling, I guess I have, right now in fact.

No wake-up moments or harsh one-eighties

To peer at clearer mirrors. Still intact,

Despite the bruises: my identity.

But I do hate autobiographies,

For without the weight or wings of fiction,

I know the words won’t stick, can’t get traction.

Can you see them? Did they evaporate?

Can’t soar apart from imagination,

Just sinking as they over-saturate.