I am not me
The swans are coming. From eternal south. To the plains of green and calming lakes. Their whiteness tells a story of survival and persistence. The stuff I’m running out of.
I watch them be. And see me in their eyes like a stranger that doesn’t belong. Anywhere.
I wish I could fly away to a safe distance from dark angels within. Away from their whispers. Their lies. Their loudness. I wish I had swan wings. The light feathers. To lead the way to a better eternity.
In my anxiety, the present moment is burning. Like an uncomfortable bed. Like a firecracker in a hand. I am now and I am eternal. Not a part of time.
If I was expendable like time is I wouldn’t notice time. I would be its flow. But I am not. I endure. Like a stone in the stream. Wet and bruised on the outside but dry and sound at its core.
That untouchable thought keeps me safe. I am not my illness. I am not my depression. I am not my anxiety. I am not me.
I am the swan embracing wind in its fullness and breathe the freshness of eternal hope that makes me survive another day.
I am not me. I am my dream in my safe and dry core unexposed to earthly elements.
For eternity.
