Ephemeral
Where am I?… Today, where am I?
My life is moving forward, but am I moving along with it? Is it moving along with me?
I want to be carefree, yet I keep wondering—what is this worry? What am I worried about?
At the same time, everything is happening, and yet nothing is.
Who do I go to when everyone comes to me with their everything?
Someone’s lies, someone’s truth, someone’s sorrow, and someone’s joy.
Among all of this, where am I?
Who is mine, and who is not?
Who do I confide in, and even if I do, will they understand?
Should I write it all on paper and set it afloat on a boat, or carve it into my memories and let the wind carry it away?
I have a thousand stories—one for each person.
But in listening to their stories, I seem to have lost my own.
The real question is: should I search for my story, or for myself?
I am a story, after all.
But if I am lost, then whose story is this?
Is there anyone who, upon hearing my story, would want to be a part of it?
Then again, they must also be searching—for me, or for themselves.
When will we find each other? And when we do, will you recognize me?
Will I recognize you?
I wait…
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