Playing Mind

A traveller
so sure of himself
does not
such a great story
tell...

It seems I have finally grown to the stage where I am matured enough to be comfortable with who I am, the person I have become and have a clearer mental picture of who I will be. All fine and good, except that as a traveller, part of the fun is neither knowing the destination nor the goal, that running around and exploration is necessary to keep the faith in hoping. (But back in the days when you didn't know, all you wanted was to find out. It's human nature to rebel against oneself in thoughts.)

Now that I see my path more clearly, the writer in me has somewhat subsided, for I have learnt to no longer dream out of character too much, for more than a drug it is intoxicating. It could blur the lines of fantasy, reality and thought, bringing one to a sense of high unjustified by the harsh cruelty of the day. (For thoughts cut through boundaries of gender, race and time, potentially making me lose myself and I fear being lost.)

Or it is just that I've gotten used to my unique combination of fantasy, reality and thought that I no longer feel the need to push myself in or out of the zone. (No longer the need to try too hard to please, for my natural instincts serve better to guide me in making others feel comfortable.)

Taking life as it is, I realize that I have the ability, but not the power, to determine the course of the flow of phases in time. Each phase comes and passes, not allowing enough time for me to bask in them fully. Not granting me the permanence of memory to remember every good faith, every nice feeling, every warm heart. Indeed, fantasy, reality and thought are all very artificial in their division. One could live in fantasy as one could in reality, shielded by one's thoughts. (Where will I be and what will I be doing this time next year?)

I guess, words are insufficient to transcribe the human mind and let's leave it at that. Goodnight world. All is well. (As it always has.)

...As one who searches