what comes upon me frightens me so much I run away

and thrills me while it chases me; leaves when I beg it stay.

who wrote that?

I remember doing it
but now it seems at odds,
a face without a name
staring at me staring at it.

if I say it only came from me then
I am alone denying the is of other.

then nothing else matters — only me and mine.

if I say it came from me and not me, I am not alone admitting the is of other.

then something else matters — not just me and mine.

who? from where? from what? by self? by chance?
I ask; it will not say for sure; it grabs my hand to dance —

it goes to all I am

a body prone to pleasure mid suffering and pain,
a thinker where my thoughts alone will never fully reign,
a feeler where feelings need not say all I need to know,
an actor where each action does not say the me I show,
a creature where what I am is absolutely there for all to see
ever and always becoming exactly how my other sets me free.

who wrote that?

a force I can not fully tame,
a face without familiar name,
strangely always wants to be

now and never only me.