I’ve always felt this way. I don’t expect to be seen. I’m walking in warning lights and beeping sounds. I dream in high ceilings and ominous skies. I want a context and a definition. I want to be taken as a whole but I don’t know what that whole is. I want to embrace everything. I’m homeless all the time. I’m seeking solace. I don’t know how to let go of the pen at the end of the page. There is a lake I can’t cross; I’m still searching for a boat. I’m looking for equilibrium. I don’t actually know how to stop. I swim in my feelings. I walk with my head underwater. I collect my old hopes and keep them in a jar. I list the number of times I’ve questioned myself. I’m trying to rebuild broken things. I’m trying to find my own voice. I write hoping to be seen. I write hoping to hold myself. I’m in an epilogue trying to find the start of a new story. I really don't like disagreeing. It makes me feel lost. I want to feel like a person. I want to know who you are.