Old soul

Another man imitates me, the way I dream, the way I think, but he never talks to me. He pretends I don’t exist. When anyone blames me, I blame him. When he excels, I take the credit. He bears my traumas and disappointments, and the deaths of those I’ve loved, but he’s never allowed to complain. I know he suffers; but it’s not just me. I can’t relieve millenniums of oppression or undo the murder of his people with an aphorism and a laugh.