Anamorphic, But Not Really

Each molecule of oxygen that travelled my bloodstream, I could pick out; this one had been on the lips of a Chartist in England as he orated for the advancement of the working class… a merchant leading a caravan of camels, outer reaches of the Sahara, each with a bag of gold between their humps, her lips pursued to a water canteen… a sea turtle swaying through the ocean, hundreds of years past, but still going on… I am all of these, everything, and yet in the moment nothing but myself.