I don’t think you can ever truly understand yourself.

Because, according to me, a person is an ever-evolving, flowing stream of color, of life; chaotic and tangled in some places, yet alive.

What I see as a self is not a giver, or receiver; not a word or sentence, not a box, but the passage into life- a path, like the space between words or the sky. I am the transition from one moment to another, I become what I experience, and what I feel. So what I really am is an interaction. And an interaction can be confusing, like knowing where one ends and the other begins. While I can feel others' pain, sometimes I take on their burden as if it were my own. This fragmented understanding of myself can really exhaust me, and it does, but I try my best to show up. To show up, exhausted and burning out, but show up as I am, loving and imperfect.

Who is she?
A fragment of light; shades of red, yellow, and blue.
The heart of a fire on a winter’s night, and the cold wind that seeps through gaps in the windowsill, unwanted.

She is also a story waiting to be told; the story of a girl and the skies she stored within her. The memories of places she will never forget.

Every sky holds different shades of blue, purple, and sometimes even yellow; every sky holds a different weight, some carry clouds, some dust. While some she remembers like a breath of fresh air, others feel as heavy as a blanket in summer. Some are empty, some are coloured with birds. She holds all skies within her like a sanctuary.

She is a prism, a dewdrop that splits light into all the colors it could have been.

Yet, she is glass. Easily shattered by the weight of words, of expectations. Glass that has the strength to hold hope and enjoy changing seasons, but glass after all.

She is a kaleidoscope of voices in her head, making spirals and triangles.

The voices ask her what she is, but she doesn’t know.

She only knows what she has been before, and what she wants to be.

She wants to be warm yellow light.
A sigh of relief for a burdened life,
A warm hug, lots of laughter, and love.

Yet, she remains a collage, a chorus of all that she experiences.