identity

I was with my friend on our way to visit my family, when we decided to drop in on some old friends. He had maintained close friendships with them, but I had not seen them for some time. We entered the home of a couple we had known for many years, the morning after a big party we had not attended. People were waking up and suffering a little from the night before. I was glad to be feeling bright and alert, having been awake for hours. Regardless that I had not been close with the circle of friends for years, they were mostly welcoming, if a little cool, and tried to involve me in a project they were working on, as though I'd never left. I ventured into the kitchen and saw more faces I'd not seen for a while, and, although pleased to see them, I felt no desire to resume my place among them. I was keen to visit my family with my friend, but he was now involved in the party of people, unaware of how I felt. I saw him standing with friends by a long table, eating food and laughing, and I had no wish to hurry him. I hoped he'd remember our plan and independently decide to leave with me. I waited for a while, anxious to see my parents, who lived just around the corner.
The scene changed and my friend showed me an illustration on the cover of a book. It looked familiar and he explained he'd sourced it at a famous news stand in New York. Somehow, without boarding a plane, we rose into the sky to a great height, shunted at lightning speed through the air, and descended into a street in New York, just near the said news stand. I sat at an outdoor table, taking a break, while my friend spoke with the man behind the counter. The man brought out a folder containing numerous illustrations and documents, flicking through it. Again, I recognised the work and suddenly realised it was mine. It was a folder containing my old drawings, some I'd forgotten I'd done, as well as documents such as school reports, references, CVs, university transcripts and so on. It was my personal identification folder. I told the man it was mine and, upon seeing his expression, said I could prove it by matching my signature with that on several of the documents. I opened my wallet to find a card bearing my signature, but the cards all seemed to be old, from various phases of my life, and my signature looked younger, typical of the time in which the cards were signed. There were cards from high school and from places I'd worked throughout my twenties and thirties. I pulled out my driver's license, but could see no signature on it. I could find nothing right. I took a pen and signed my name on a piece of paper, several times, hoping I could convince him of my identity and reclaim my folder. I wondered, however, if I were to lose the folder, who I could be without it.