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.