Not knowing that this is just a fragment of my metamorphosis
Achy bones and tired hands from writing out all my plans,
And crumpling them all tightly as I toss the pages into the waste bin,
It has never done me any good to hypothesize my possible future,
Instead I have to catch a breeze to float on
So that my seed will land on ground that is fertile,
And hope that the conditions will be optimal,
That I will take root and begin to sprout,
New life from what has been sacrificed
This all seems so cold and fatalistic,
Like a kiss of death
Watching, my life, the movie
Praying that these first scenes have not been suffering in vain
When do we find the good parts? Do we discover that we were too busy waiting for them, that we lived through them blindly?
Frozen. Pause this scene. I’m frozen.