… to be this.
… why can’t you?
… all too big to fail.
I’m the curator of my own potential
The guardian of my mistakes and missteps
I collect each one and display it carefully
Showcasing my failures like trophies
While the trunks where the victories are stored
Seem to grow lighter, the walls of these rooms
Are covered in shelves heavy with defeat
It’s no wonder I can’t breathe, can’t move
My lungs are thick with the dust of longing
Of “maybe”, “if only” and “why”
My heart burns with the desire to be rid of this monument
These walls that imprison my freedom
My future, my light
I set fire to the dry volumes and brittle documents
That mar the beauty of this place which once was my sanctuary
Watch the flames lick the edges of pages that held no joy
Only regret and sorrow
Hear the fat crackle and subtle hiss as the fire burns down this cellar of what will never be
And creates breathing room
Space for me to open the latches on these trunks filled with hope and determination
Time to construct a living memory
A future that begins in this moment
A life built on love and joy
Filled to bursting with that same fire which burns
In my heart.