I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.  
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.



I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.  
People were constantly telling me to be quiet.  I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.



I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.  
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.



I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.



I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips.  It was only completed when the smile came.  
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me.  I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.



Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.  
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.                                                       ­             
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.  
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.

Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.

Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around.  Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.


But now.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me.  I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.

I will not sleep tonight.