Wishing Well

Brick by brick, I was slowly built. Molded to the ground and firmly set in place. So much room, and yet I was nothing but empty space. I spent each morning gazing at a blissfully painted sky, longing to be the artist that made it come alive. Similarly, my nights consist of wishing upon the stars, that maybe one day I could be the one to shine through the dark. Honey has bees, leaves have trees, when will something ever need me? A well made of stone, hollow, and never ever whole. The well and I, we live side by side.

The concept of one’s life purpose has taken me a long time to fully wrap my head around. It’s something so personal to an individual’s development that it feels somewhat wrong to put it into words. However, if I had to say one thing, it’d be that every traumatic experience I’ve ever encountered contributed to filling up my well. Although this scared me at first, I quickly realized that holding this water, the pain of those around me, gave me the purpose I was always searching for. Being able to aid in grief is a gift, one that I will forever hold dear to me. The silly metaphor of an insignificant well has followed me all throughout my life and made me the person I am today. So, for what it’s worth, as badly as the water needed the well, the well needed the water 100 times more.