The Fifth Person Perspective

Welcome to my recycling.  The fifth of its kind.  The fifth person. The fifth ‘Me’.  The fifth birth.  The fifth death.
Seven years.  You do know that's all it takes, don't you? The erosion of self, ‘I’ mean?  You think that's you reading this?  You honestly think that you're you? finite? definite? alive? Oh no, no, no my friend.  We are tectonic, you and ‘I’.  Our selves shift with the grumble of our stomachs and the voiding of our bowels.  In seven years there will be nothing left of that simulacrum of 'You'.  You'll have scratched, shit and shed every molecule of yourself into dust. Dust to be hoovered up and consumed by mites and parasites.
Parasites.  Do you think the mites think of themselves as 'I' too?  Do you wonder if they contemplate existence as they bite on your belly and suck on your skin? It's a nice conceit isn't it?  'It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, and in this flea our two bloods mingled be.' Donne had it right.  Blood mingles with water and yet oil floats on the surface.  ‘I’ wonder if oil floats on blood?
One day.  One day the earth will shed her skin and rid herself of the bites and blisters we inflict on her.  She will recycle herself as you and ‘I’ do, she will die and be reborn; clean.
But ‘I’ was talking of us, wasn't ‘I’? 'Me' and 'You' and our incarnations.  Seven years.  Every seven years we rid ourselves of ourselves.  We are all nothing but smashed mirrors. Broken pieces of stories we tell ourselves to remain a fiction in our own heads.  How we construct this character when our cells have shed themselves time after time is something ‘I’ can't tell you.  ‘I’ can tell you ‘I’ feel like 'Me' but ‘I’ know that ‘person’ is gone.
Seven years they say. Seven years bad luck. Every seven years ‘I’ shatter into pieces and am resurrected from the shards.  Every seven years ‘I’ am recycled, reborn, renewed.  Every seven years ‘I’ am washed clean of your filth and rise again, pure.  Luck is for the weak. Luck is for the parasites.
Who ‘I’ am, ‘I’ no longer know, but ‘I’ know ‘I’ am not who ‘I’ was.  The cells are gone and so is ‘he’.  What creature or spirit moves these limbs and guides my hand ‘I’ also cannot tell you.  ‘I’ know ‘I’ am blameless for my actions.  ‘I’ know that ‘I’ cannot be held accountable when ‘I’ have shed myself from myself five times over.  ‘I’ have shed others from themselves too. It was as it should be, ‘I’ know that we are all tectonic. There are five birth scars on ‘my’ arms and many more death scars in ‘my’ past.  I am an avatar of nothing.
And I hunt parasites.