Poem: Zoroastrian Afterlife

If I met myself on a bridge,
like the Zoroastrian afterlife,
the first thing I'd think is
how handsome I am.
As I got closer I would next notice
the subtle movements indicative of
great intelligence and
incredible depth of thought.
As I got closer still I would see
my eyes
and know that I was in
deep and lasting pain.
A pain unnoticed and untreated.
I am an actor.
Seeing through the facade that I put on
to cover the great and gaping hole
where a personality should be.
And I would pity myself.
Seeing a man of great burden
and little respite.
The pity would cause me to stumble
upon shaking hands,
and the other me would see
that I have seen his pain
and he would be embarrassed,
stumbling likewise.
We would not know what to do
with each other.
Each pitying the other,
ashamed at the loss of potential,
but knowing the other is no one to judge,
being the same.
Perhaps we would both instantly
fall to tears,
hugging each other,
because no one else understands.
And when we were done hugging,
looking each other in the eye,
we would knowingly nod
and kill each other.
Jumping together off the bridge
down to Hell.