I am not lost.
I am unmoored.

There is a difference,
but no one asks what it is.

I stand with empty hands
while others decide

what weight
I am allowed to carry.

They speak of caution as if it were wisdom
and of memory as if it were truth.

My past arrives before I do.
It sits in the room,

takes the chair meant for me,
answers questions I am never asked,

so I float,
trying to keep my head up

Even water grows stagnant
when it is never allowed to move.

Waiting is also an act
even when cursed as ambition.



Penned by my hand on the 12th of Glacian, in the year 994 AF.