What do you want to be?
Who are you?
What do you do for a living?
I cannot give you these answers,
you’ll simply misunderstand,
and I am not living a life,
that allows for that strife.
I will not try to make you understand
who I am.
I cannot quantify an existence that just….
A person laughing up into the eye of a storm.
A human crying over the death of a rose.
Someone as fleeting as dust kicked up in the wind.
A life as permanent as stars in the sky.
To be felt,
like the music that comes not just from the press of keys of a piano,
but the strike of skin upon them.
Intangible until you stop to listen,
because a life that exists for purpose
exists outside of the definitions demanded.
Sought for, thought of, theorized.
Faith, love, hatred, exhaustion,
thrum against a ribcage
that is in crisis because it was relearning how to breathe,
after thinking for so long it was.
Clear lines must be had,
or so I’m told,
but this world is not of sound mind,
so purpose because the rallying cry,
and not purpose of being,
but being of purpose
and existentialism and nihilism can argue in the back seat,
but the white dove still flies
no matter what they decide.
So there is no choice of misunderstanding
that what you hear is the music before the sound,
feeling the water before it rains,
it’s the peace before the war ends.
It’s where I begin.