identity

I confess,
in the quiet before dawn breaks,
there's a stirring, a restless dance of shadows
on my bedroom wall—
a silent play of what I was, am, and might be.

This room, a cradle of thought,
where whispers dress in the garb of certainty,
and the mirror reflects a face, familiar yet strange—
a cartographer mapping the contours of a self, uncharted.

I am the echo of an ancient tree,
roots tangled in the loam of existence,
branches reaching for the light of knowing,
leaves unfurling with stories untold.

In the pulse of the city, I find rhythm,
a heartbeat syncing with the drum of countless others,
each step a note in the symphony of being,
a crescendo of purpose in the hum of routine.

The scent of rain on concrete,
a baptism renewing the promise of growth,
as I navigate the streets—
a voyager sailing the asphalt sea.

Taste of coffee lingers, bittersweet,
like memories that cling to the tongue,
a fusion of past and present,
savored in the quietude of reflection.

Touch of sun, a gentle affirmation,
a painter's stroke on the canvas of today,
warming the coolness of doubt,
illuminating the artistry of self.

I move, I change,
a sculpture in constant revision,
molded by hands unseen,
a testament to the craft of existence.

In the stillness, I hear the whisper again,
a voice that is mine yet not mine,
speaking of journeys taken and yet to embark,
a navigator charting the course of an infinite sea.

And so, I return to the dawn,
to the dance of shadows now stilled,
with the knowledge that identity
is not a destination but a voyage—
endless, wondrous, and uniquely mine.