coffee, notebook, writing

Many Lives

I have lived many lives.

I have been many people, many things.

I have longed to be many things.

But all in my imagination.

Sometimes, I can feel the pull of a life – another life, a life I have no lived, calling out to me. I am in that moment, that person, and I wish that it was real, that it was my life.

I have walked down dark, rainy streets, I have sat by the sea, I have travelled the world,  I have surfed, spent days on beaches, lived out the back of camper vans and tents. I have been to all these places I dare not – been all these people that I am not, that I cannot be.

The pain of carrying all these lives makes me sad sometimes. The weight of the burden of all these directions and possibilities can too much, and sometimes I don’t know where to turn or who to be. I want to be me but I want to be everything and I want to be everything I can be.

I think that’s the trouble sometimes. I want to be everyone and everything and do everything, and yet still be me, and yet… that scares me, and so I end up doing nothing. Just plodding on, going about the same every day routine. And it pains me sometimes. It hurts. To be stuck in-between these two things, and then paralysed by my own fear and disbelief, and just left, imagining. I am afraid of everything that might go wrong, of things that might not work out. I am afraid to give it a try, to change things, just because, even when I imagine it, day after day.

I am stuck in limbo between my own imagination and reality, a line I dare not cross.

Well, maybe it’s time to change something – I just gotta work out how.

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