We stare at our reflections, not to comment on our beauty,
but to find something time left behind.
A glimpse, a hint, of who we used to be—but now, a non-existent phantom.
And in this silence anything is possible, but uncertainty is kind.
We ask, what is wrong?, but receive silence in return,
A remembrance of dreams we too easily passed on.
Was it the world that pulled us away,
or did we willingly drift away?
Are we lost, or simply fading,
too loud with possibilities, yet crushed by doubt?
We run in circles, chasing the light,
forgetting we were once on fire.
Maybe we are not lost, but asleep,
buried too deep in an all consuming sadness.
And maybe our healing is not meant to be too loud,
but soft little steps, while moving forward across the clouds.
So let's be gentle with ourselves when we reflect,
after all, not everyone's story is meant to be perfect.
We are not behind the eight-ball—we are simply becoming,
and sometimes, simply becoming means unbecoming.