The Unbecoming

We collect years.  We survive days.  Information filtered in, regurgitated, forgotten.  Influenced, then set free.

And along the way, we think we’re one step closer to finding ourselves.  Knowing ourselves.  Understanding ourselves.  We grasp at any definition, hoping to wear it like a shield against the world.

But maybe it’s not like that at all.  Maybe, instead, we enter into our adulthoods battered, broken, confused.  Pellets of assumption, expectation, doubt thrown at us, bruising us.  Years of war paint settled in layers, thick, suffocating.

But underneath it all, we had it right all along.

We let the voices in, shaping us.  We diffuse ourselves, trying to fit.  We check what we want in exchange for the cookie cutter expectation of reality.  It’s easier.

Expectation without guidance is like poison.  Try and fail, time and time again, never finding the hand to help you up.

So stand up on your own two feet.  Brush the dust off.  And walk your own way.