We often grasp this point in our lives when we unravel the hidden points in our wandering souls, only for us to decipher that we have unlocked that someone we’re not, and enclosing the soul that we are.
Stories are not just stories. They are markers of compassion for healing the disconnect; the rift of soul from its knowingness.
Wanderers inevitably get lost. One has to keep track of the light as to be in track, and if lost still, inevitability to thus what we call destiny, has been chosen by one, as a choice.
And I’ve been a lost wanderer by choice.
I have been an alien to my very own self. I literally am anonymous to my own poems and stories. I have collided to this massive someone I am not.
Why of all the badass kids out there, why does it have to be me? Sometimes, I just so feel like blowing up. I have well, accepted these not-so-recent plagues of my life but, it just so rattles me to realize that I really am undeserving of this. No, not this, THESE. Sometimes, I blame the family I once had for making me the person I am in now. Sometimes, I blame myself. Sometimes, I just do not know who to blame. I undeservingly deserve these.
I’m no sure if I’m supposed to just let it slip away, or stress myself out with depthless issues. Not even worth my time, but, ugh. IDK.