In the end We always go back to what we are And every time What we are is different from what we used to be Sooner or later The scaffolding of our self-story comes tumbling down Revealing us, raw and unscripted If only for a moment The stories live their life and then they die The Love becomes the love Then becomes a love And then it fades into the dark well of the past The delusions live their life and then they die The Hurt becomes a hurt A hurt becomes a blessing And then it fades into the dark well of the past Sooner or later We always go back to what we are Raw and unscripted, if only for a moment.
I first published this poem on Luna’s blog. I’ve photographed the poppies in the wheatfield before the pandemic, and before many other things happened. It feels like a different life.
Riddle Me This 
I think there are times as you grow older you ponder on what seems like another life.
I try to view these things as the veins of our own stories. Running through the core of me.
I’m not surely we are ever at the truly raw, though there are moments it feels that way.
Your poem was very heart felt.
Thank you
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Yes, it feels like another life and, at the same time, it feels very much connected to the present. “The veins of our stories” is well formulated.
Thanks a lot.
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This is so true! Life is an accumulation of cyclic moments, and we recycle ourselves to fit into these passing moments. 🙂
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thanks for the kind words 🙂
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