The speaker looks back over a life spent in many rooms and many houses, and sees it as a series of small dramas, some self-made, some not, and most of them unfinished. The title, "Anamnesis," means a kind of recollection, and the poem works like that: a slow sifting through memory that turns into a larger meditation. The walls are "unseeing" and "uncaring," so the speaker feels watched by nothing and answerable to no one.
From there the mood widens. Days pass with a reluctance to face "this mess," and the dream of purposeful action fades as the years go round the Sun. People are described as animals "that will not be themselves," aware of fragility and decay but still waiting. Words appear, searching for a story worth telling, and the poem suggests that under every surface something waits to be misunderstood.
The ending is blunt. Life is either lucky or messed up, and the choice is "yours," then "mine." The speaker can't decide. The feeling is tired, honest and unresolved, with a little dark humor in the final hesitation.