I think I am starting to accept who I really am. I know I have said that before. Long ago. Days ago. What I mean: I am starting to accept that I am changing. Constantly. Often. Who I was yesterday might not be who I am today, and yet, it is still me. It is as if I am a book: you turn a page, and then another, and the story continues. Yesterday I am page 42. Today I am page 76. Tomorrow I am an Introduction, the next day I might be the last paragraph, on the last page. Or: I am another book entirely. But the story is the same. Does that make sense to you?
The thing is, I am always in the middle of changing, in the thick of it, that’s why maybe I don’t notice, or I forget. I often frown upon the world, and life, because why must it be so unpredictable, and difficult, and fleeting? Lately though I realise that that is also me. I wonder now if I will ever catch up, or if I should. I worry when I feel I’m being left behind, that I start running and running, but until when? And at what cost? And by doing that am I also not losing things, giving up things, for this?
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There are two versions of every life.
In the first one, you get a mother, a father,
your very own room.
You learn to walk, which is only done by walking.
You learn the past tense of have, which is hunger.
You learn to ask almost anything
is to ask it to be over,
as when the lover asks the other
“Are you sleeping? Are you beginning
to go away?”
(And whether or not you learn it, life does not penetrate
more than five miles above the earth
or reach more than three miles beneath the sea.
Life is eight miles long.
You could walk it, and be there before sundown.
Or swim it, or fall it, or crawl it.)
The second is told from the point
of view of the sky.