I made imaginary dog friends because nobody would talk to me. I wrote letters to imaginary future mates because no-one wanted letters to read. I passed notes in secret holes to people I didn’t know because I was getting used to the void.
I typed my secrets to distant strangers because I didn’t know how to speak. I created worlds and filled them with people because I didn’t know how to find friends. I whispered prayers to the stars because I didn’t know how to cry for help.
And one day, what was born of desperation became a craft.
And what became a craft grew into a passion.
And that passion sparked fires that lit the ground and exposed new paths in the night I could go by.
If I could redo it all, I’d have come the same way. Made the same mistakes. Been the same me.
In this shifting flux, at least that much is a comfort. That I will look back and think — those were necessary rocks to scamper across and I’m glad I took the passes that I did and made the scars I did and went the way I did. It all evens out on the other end.
And I’d never be this if it wasn’t for the forced isolation, cultural disconnection, and confusing barriers that my semi-nomadic beginnings instilled in me. And I’d never be where I am without delving in and exploring those depths.
Autumn and change and a chill is in the air. Wet drops of rain fall like tears of nature on my cheeks, and I am reminded that I am a single thread in an expanding universe on a multi-dimensional landscape with infinite possibilities, all just as real as any choice I should ever choose.
And that regardless of where I stand at one point, I could always find my way to another.