Fleeting Self
Sometimes the person I am and the person I want to be do not see eye to eye.
She runs so fast, always surpassing me.
I cannot see in the cloud of dust that generates at the heels of her swift feet.
Sometimes she is compassionate and slows her pace.
I ask her questions, express my concerns and doubts.
She tries so hard to listen, but her loud thoughts interject like a young child in conversation.
Before I can even formulate a parting sentiment she is gone again,
her form a barely discernible shadow in the distance.
Sometimes she sees my mistakes but knows them as genuine attempts.
Naïve words spill from my eager lips as I speak nervously,
yearning to hold meaningful conversation,
like an impatient artist spilling paint onto fresh canvas,
unfamiliar with his trade.
Sometimes she is like a sister to me, living in my home,
sharing my days.
We may go our separate ways for a bit, but we return to the same place.
Other times she is like a distant relative that I have not seen in years,
only known to me as the voice on the other end of the line.
I long to catch up with her, to know the details of her mysterious life.
Sometimes she lets me into her world. As I continue to age,
she is more receptive of my company.
The last time we spoke, she looked deep into my eyes,
eyes that are hers as well.
She said to me “Never give up, I promise it will be worth it.”
Then she turned on her heels, and left me there
in that familiar cloud of dust.
She runs so fast, always surpassing me.
I cannot see in the cloud of dust that generates at the heels of her swift feet.
Sometimes she is compassionate and slows her pace.
I ask her questions, express my concerns and doubts.
She tries so hard to listen, but her loud thoughts interject like a young child in conversation.
Before I can even formulate a parting sentiment she is gone again,
her form a barely discernible shadow in the distance.
Sometimes she sees my mistakes but knows them as genuine attempts.
Naïve words spill from my eager lips as I speak nervously,
yearning to hold meaningful conversation,
like an impatient artist spilling paint onto fresh canvas,
unfamiliar with his trade.
Sometimes she is like a sister to me, living in my home,
sharing my days.
We may go our separate ways for a bit, but we return to the same place.
Other times she is like a distant relative that I have not seen in years,
only known to me as the voice on the other end of the line.
I long to catch up with her, to know the details of her mysterious life.
Sometimes she lets me into her world. As I continue to age,
she is more receptive of my company.
The last time we spoke, she looked deep into my eyes,
eyes that are hers as well.
She said to me “Never give up, I promise it will be worth it.”
Then she turned on her heels, and left me there
in that familiar cloud of dust.