UNTITLED ENTRY 12

I have never imagined the day I would say I'd be happy to have nothing. It seems my cravings change with the seasons, and now the season whispers no desires. It's strange. I can look without thinking, I can taste without digesting. 

Sometimes I dread the knowledge that it won't be long before I uproot myself all over, work the ground and plant new seeds. I do not get to call myself a thing before I am something else. I do not get to warm up to my skin before I have to shed it. I wonder who, and what else is trapped in the continuous flow, too light, too easy to sweep away. I leave no prints. Having my memory is like remembering the dead who led very short lives; very faint, very vague. 

If there are people who are embraced by permanence, then I think I must envy them. Permanence is life's way of saying: All is well, all is enough. It is an echo of satisfaction. Imagine something being so right, so good, you wouldn't change a thing about it. Imagine being so right, so good, life wouldn't change a thing about you. Imagine not having to try every route, learn every line, chase every chance and draw every map. 

I think I have been afraid to admit, or at least accept, that I am still not solid enough to have a permanent place somewhere. I am someone but I am not yet a person. I never am, I become. I hold no weight, I am not anchored. I have taken the effort to search for my roots and found I was tied to them by rubber bands. I have mimicked a rock in its standing and found that I wanted to know where the clouds are going. I cannot be embraced for long, but that just means that the whole world gets to brush my shoulder. I wonder if I will ever be a person, or if I will accept it and be at ease with it when it happens. 

I've been very scared. It takes me quite a while to come to simple realizations, and so I did not want to be coming to this one at this age: That it had been mutual. That I do not want this life, and that it doesn't want me. It was a deep anxiety; I'm glad that I swam down to it. Funnily enough, now I fear the day this wasteland becomes a home, so that I may feel guilty instead of heartbroken. Now I fear remembering it fondly, even though it had only ever been beautiful because I had felt so.