myself/ground

I've lost myself. I'm not writing for me anymore:

I forget why I do what I do.
Why I like what I like.
What makes me, me.

So much has happened, and rather quickly. I thought I wanted it so badly. But now I find I don't want all that.

I want to be happy. I've changed my mind on people, places, things, etc. I'm trying to be what I'm not. I'm trying to be what I think I should be. But not what I am.

Stepping out of the whirlwind. Finding the light and quiet again. Watching a leaf fall to the groud; blow in the wind. When the sun sets and the city sky reflects the particles to its canvas. Feeling words get caught under my fingernails. Digging in the water, running to catch the dust. Remembering to remember much and often, and smile twice that. Looking for my room's ground. New goals phoenix the old ones. Old knowledge pouring new. A life of understanding, fruition, events, passings, etc. Making bonds, mending damaged bonds, breaking bad bonds. Anticipating May, brooding over December.