Title: Washing machine
I feel the pain in my tired eyes, my tired hands and wrist,
Lift them up, but feel the weight of the world pushing them down, pushing me around.
I try and stand up, only to slip, to have the ground move beneath me.
I will not let this stop me, I keep on pushing on, putting my energy on trying to compose myself, and stand up straight.
But what is the point? When this is not how to get where I want to be, I need to go with the cycle, go with the flow, be washed away.
I need the water and soap to enter my fabric, to feel drenched, to be cleaned of all my thoughts, and give room to new thoughts, ideas and experiences.
Purge myself of the past, hang me out to dry, colours bleeding, me in my true form. Fabric, frail but ready for anything.
I stand tall on the line, basking in the afternoon sun. I am me, not individual, but I am me, and I will make use of myself to my full potential, Absorb the dirt of the world. By don’t let that get me down, it is okay, I can be cleaned once again.
Do I love to travel? Or am I told to?
I have travelled a lot in my short time and I hold those memories dear, but the notion of travelling more does not thrill me. I am not filled with a deep desire to research places, I am content working hard at the things I enjoy here in this city.
Previously when I travelled I was searching for something, I had many terrible jobs, felt unloved, and believed strongly that I was somehow missing out. But with my sence of purpose in this world and current work/school life interest I feel that I have found something worth sticking around for.
But travel, will I travel again where to? And for what reason?