I used to know the shape of myself; the edges smooth, the corners sharp, a body outlined in certainty.
But time is a slow, relentless tide, carving me into something unrecognizable, a figure blurred by the hands of days that never ask permission to rewrite.
I search for the map I once carried, but the ink has bled into the soil, and the roads I walked are swallowed by the shifting earth.
I am always becoming, never arriving, a whisper in the wind that once was a voice, a name that no longer fits the mouth that speaks it.
Yet still, I move forward, not in search of what was, but to see what I might become.
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