What do I love?
I have asked myself this question
over and over again—
in the dark of the night,
in the chaos of crowded rooms,
in moments when it feels like
everyone else knows where they're going.
And yet,
I still don't know the answer.
Maybe someday I will.
Maybe someday
I'll find something that feels like mine,
something that makes me lose track of time,
forget my worries for a little while,
something that makes me look at myself
and think,
I did this.
Maybe someday
I'll wake up knowing why I am here,
without wondering if I'm wasting my life
trying so hard to become someone
I don't even know how to be.
Maybe someday
I will stop searching for the person,
I think I'm supposed to become.
Maybe it was never the things I loved
that made me question myself.
Maybe it was seeing how perfect
they seemed in someone else's hands.
Their hands looked effortless,
and mine suddenly felt unsure.
So I reached a little less,
tried a little less,
until holding on began to feel foolish,
and letting go
became something I could pretend
didn't hurt.
Maybe someday
I'll find myself.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I'll realize
I was never really falling behind.
I was simply becoming.
And until then,
I will keep asking the question:
What do I love?
Maybe someday,
I will finally know.
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