Dark and night, I lay in my bed and wondered. About the world and its people and the animals and the trees and where exactly I would fit into the world. To be exact, I was thinking about all the places where I didn't.
Going through all the beautiful places in my head that are ruined by a human footprint. I didn't belong in them. People have to find people, and purpose. That's where I was struggling.
All of it seemed a little bit too far out of reach. Everything was too much of a leap, or so unappealing that it didn't feel like a choice. I didn't see things with clarity and purpose, I saw them as black pools where navigation was impossible.
Help never came, and you have to learn to fight. You get tough and brave, like you are as a child. You lose it but then it comes back to you. It did to me, anyway.
Perhaps after you figure that out, things get much easier. I knew then it was time to start trying, really trying. So I hunted and searched and wrote. I knew what I needed to do, but I wasn't there yet.
I was starting to see what mattered to me. Waiting for someone to find me, then I found myself. In pages and words and images in my head, filling me up with visions and hopes and dreams.
Learning that - the tricks and the twists and the magic of words - writing them and reading them and. Picking up education and knowledge and experience. Writing came easily to me after that, more natural than anything else.
Years passed and I'm nearly there, and things feel different now. I found a purpose, a thing to reach towards. I'm still moving and I'm still figuring but things feel vibrant now, more defined. I know what I want.
Now I am almost found.