Patchwork

In constant flux

When I was a little girl, I couldn’t resist sadness. I’ll be drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I would seek it in the eyes and faces of people.

Faces of strangers, friends and boys.

And there he was, a great pillar of sadness, condensed and converged and nowhere to go.

There was something grand and greater in pain and sadness, it’s the only time life seemed real or meaningful.

So I took a great big spoon and gorged myself with it. Like a cat losing itself over a ripped open bag of catnip, I will roll over in my sadness, kicking my feet, slamming my fists and drinking my tears.

Tsk tsk. That poor creature. You’ll look away for a moment, an ugly sight to behold.

The truth is, I don’t know my nature. Try as I might to name it and call it. I cannot. I’m a patchwork of everyone I’ve ever met, loved, feared, hated, envied, lusted and desired.

It’s a patchwork that keeps changing. In its captured form it makes no sense. In stillness it makes no sense.
In movement, it’s iridescent.

I think it’s time now. To make peace. Give up on becoming and to just be.