On this
September afternoon, I ask myself who am I?
Many times
in life I felt I have been anxiety; I have been fear and burden.
I have been
littleness with a margin that decorates itself with maybe too little dignity.
I have been
attacker, I have been inflictor of evil.
I have been
wound opener, a graceless speaker.
I have been
frigid and cold. I have been a dark storm.
I have been
a much too small tower, with a beacon of hope.
I have been
tears, both loud and silent. I have been silence in anger and joy.
I have been arrogance
humbled by sobering reality in the highest moments of glory.
I have been
child seeking for fame, only discovering its ugly face.
I have been
isolation, when silence was lacking.
Truth is, I
do not know who I have been, or if anything of it has ever been seen. And here
I see what the problem is, the seen or unseen, the “has been”, has still been
me. I have decorated myself with guilt, just and unjust, dressed in softness of
newness beyond, never giving up the futile hope that by attention all will be
won.
