Who did I tell myself to become? How did I plan to manifest her? Which rough tides were tasked with smoothing these jagged corners? Will I ever know?
I’m searching.
Change. The why of desire can read easy, even when fluid. The how, elusive. Perhaps I ain’t listenin’, sittin’, willin’. I’m stubborn so maybe I never did. Perhaps stopping before starting will prove it wasn’t worth it in the first place. Would I want it and be as proud if it were easy?
Always searching.
Found her before, dissociated, dreamless, beat and muted. Vowed to speak life into her, grow her, power her. Then again she hid, afraid and deterred. Only emergin’ to lash out or create. The duo occasionally coexist. Glimpses of promise.
Still, sick of searching.
What’s the struggle even for? When it’s this hard and marred with loss on a solitude road, how should I expect to keep myself company as a life source? Just to say it happened, or prove it was possible? What’s the legacy: the voyage or where I dock?
Searching…
She’s somewhere waiting to be freed.
Simply…poetry.