No Direction
I wander these streets with no sense of direction
Never-ending roads taunt me with the idea that if I just took one more step, I could be happier. Happier than I’ve been, happier than I am.
It’s a never-ending stream of self-improvement, 'till I no longer look like my fractured past. But if not for the cracks within, would there ever truly be a me? If I am perfect in every single way, if I become the person I want to be, the one I look up to, can I truly deem that myself?
Or shall I forever be a caricature of what I wished, a imperfect reflection of my muse? For if I have no more steps to take on an infinite road, is the road truly infinite? Or have I cut myself off from another set of paths and claimed false perfection?
I wander these streets with no sense of direction. A yearning to be better than I am, a fear to stay the same. To have never of changed. I cannot see the end of this road, I do not think there is one. But if I can never truly be the person I wish I was, is there a point to all this? Or am I stuck in this loop of forevermore self-hatred and improvement?
If I take that step, can I ever walk back, or is it just continuously walking until I find a version of myself I can live with? With no sense of direction.