but it’s hard for you because i’m cut from a cloth you find difficult, stiff and scratchy
i’ve laid myself against the hot iron of your expectations so often that i’m pliable beyond requirement and even i’ve started to believe that your way of being, is better
i’m willing to adapt and i even see the benefits of taking risks, dreaming big, of doing and being everything that my weavers never apparently contemplated
sadly an unplanned douse of cold, watery reality is all it takes to undo the careful treatments we’ve applied
and your ensuing disappointment is felt in every limp thread
i silently implode with anger and disgust at the state of my development over which i had no control until such time as control became synonymous with a near-complete rejection of the values and approaches of the people who gave me everything i needed to get here
The view outside is so clear now that we’ve cleaned the windows.
The silence this spare room offers at late hours despite the near-constant sound of tires gripping road, engines conbusting outside, is like the sanctuary of my consciousness despite the constant traffic in my mind.
I feel like who we really are cannot be suppressed, even if the environment and circumstances change. Here I am, years later, sitting at the windowsill, writing in this journal and looking out, and in.
I think I’ll always find my windowsill no matter where I go.