Sometimes I wish
I carried this wisdom back then,
when questions rattled inside me
like unstrung bells.

Now, the answers feel obvious,
glowing like constellations
I had been staring at all along
without knowing their names.

I understood you deeply,
but only to the depth
I had reached in myself.

My own unfinished self
set the horizon of my knowing,
a shallow tide holding back
the ocean I could not yet breathe.

Now I see how infinite it always was

Hindsight glows like a lantern
revealing the obvious
that once lived in shadows:
that you were never a riddle,
only a mirror,
and I was the one still learning
how to see.

The anima you stirred does not live in simple light,
but in the hidden currents beneath thought,
where memory folds into longing,
and every silence carries the weight of what was once spoken.

You carved new pathways in me,
a symmetry of tenderness and defiance,
teaching my soul to bend without breaking,
to find music even in fracture,
to trust that beauty is not always gentle,
but always real.

Through your presence,
imagination grew teeth and wings,
dreams no longer sat quietly in corners
they demanded to be chased,
to be sung,
to be lived.

What I carry now is more than reflection,
it is a pulse,
a vision sharpened by the way you looked at the world,
a map inked in colors only you could draw,
reminding me that wonder is not an escape
but the truest way back home.

I have lived at the edges of myself,
where storms meet silence,
where the pendulum swings
between too much and not enough
never finding that gentle place
they call center.

My body remembers every earthquake,
every sudden drop,
every moment I was too small
or too loud for this world.
Now it flinches at stillness,
searches for familiar chaos
in the quiet of ordinary days.

I take my vitamins,
count my steps like rosary beads,
measure sleep in careful hours,
eat the colors that promise healing
but my nervous system
still hums with ancient alarms,
still mistakes peace
for the eye of a storm.

What is normal
when you've been stretched
between breaking points?
When calm feels like waiting
for the other shoe to drop?
When your body speaks a language
of hypervigilance
that no amount of green tea
can translate back to rest?

Some days I am a tightrope walker
on a wire made of breath,
balancing between
the exhaustion of too much feeling
and the hollow ache
of feeling nothing at all.

Wind lifts the sea like sheets from a bed,
the sky turns a soft bruise, grey and purple,
gulls fold into commas above the water,
and the first whitecaps practice saying my name.

The storm begins to tune its instruments,
a low drum under my ribs, a snare in the dune grass,
rain smells like iron and new linen,
clean and exact, as if the day can be washed.

Noise becomes a blanket.
It wipes the fingerprints of everything I could not fix,
it drowns the rooms that echo,
it teaches my breath to move like tide, in and out.

Lightning writes brief, honest sentences,
thunder answers with a simple yes,
and in that loud grammar I finally hear quiet,
the kind that makes room for a person to exist.

I sit still and let the weather keep me,
salt on my lips, cold on my wrists,
the world is busy and I do not have to be,
I only have to listen while the water kneels and rises.

Each day, I awaken
as someone I do not recall
yesterday’s self dissolves
like salt in rainwater,
leaving only a faint outline
I cannot name.

I watch feelings and faces
rise and vanish,
a reel of strangers
moving through me
voices shifting in pitch,
hopes changing color,
beliefs melting into questions
before they find a shape.

My heart is a hall of mirrors
where nothing stays still,
reflections sliding past
before I can greet them.
I reach inward
but my hands pass through mist
whoever I was is already gone,
whoever I am is still becoming.

There is a deep confusion,
a constant turning
emotions swirl,
names and needs blur,
each new day a new mask
that fits just for a moment
before falling away.

How can I explain the ache
of never arriving
of always searching the crowd inside
for the one true face,
yet only finding
a thousand shifting shadows
dancing out of reach?

There are days when I wake up
and the blueprint of my life
has redrawn itself overnight,
walls I thought were solid
turning to mist, doors gone missing,
the rooms I once called mine
now echo with questions,
my hands tired from trying to build
and rebuild a future out of shifting ground.

I keep searching for a foundation
that won’t crack beneath my feet,
somewhere I can set down
my dreams and know they’ll stay
but the map keeps folding itself
in new directions, every corner
asking me to become someone new.

It’s exhausting to keep losing
what I’ve barely begun to love,
to watch the colors I painted fade
before I can step back and call it home.
Sometimes all I want is a quiet space
where nothing needs to change,
where I can let time gather
like soft dust on windowsills,
proving that I was here, that something stayed.

Maybe someday, the blueprints
will settle and let me rest,
letting me believe in forever,
even if only for a little while
I hold hope
like a hidden key in my pocket,
and keep building, even as the ground moves,
knowing that what I truly long for
might be the most human thing of all.

Every day I wake with a question inside,
drifting between mirrors,
searching for the face behind the fog
who am I,
who am I becoming,
where will my wandering take me?

I carry an ancient ache,
wisdom worn smooth by lifetimes
hidden beneath my skin,
yet inside my chest a child still clings
to simple joys, old wounds,
and the trembling hush of being seen.

There’s a fracture I trace with gentle fingers,
lines of distortion only I can feel,
shapes and shadows swirling
where sense and sensation refuse to meet.
Sometimes, a thing will turn my stomach
I recoil,
not from logic
but from something wordless,
old as fear.

It’s strange to hold so much knowing
and so much confusion
in the same gentle hands.
Strange to despise what reason allows,
to stand at the crossroads of intuition and thought,
lost in the silent argument between them.

Still, I keep walking,
willing to meet the parts of myself
that make no sense at all
letting questions bloom like wildflowers
in the fields between
who I was
and who I might yet become.