Self
Who am I again?
Perhaps if I turn every page like the passage of time, I will find a name buried in the ink.
Have my fingers grown weary of turning, so weary that I simply stand still,
waiting for time itself to whisper an answer,
hoping the storm will pass without me ever lifting a blade?
When did I mistake fear without courage for victory?
For a moment the pages stop.
An epilogue appears, show me triumph,
make sure to capture the parts of me that look like gold.
But every line dripped with tears,
letters blurred into a single question: Who am I?
The margins filled with names, yet mine was absent,
a silence more piercing than any war.
Did I ever cry out to myself,
or did I fear that self does not rescue self,
because self is the most selfish thing of all?
Perhaps I was afraid to switch on the light,
afraid to open the first page.
Perhaps, just perhaps,
the battle was always to learn self.
Maybe that's what this is about.
Self.
