Not smooth, not functional

My sorrow is born from what I see through the mirror. There, is not the truth of what I am but what I sometimes think I should be. There, is the projection of a person that is both a stranger and me. A stranger wearing the suit of my body. Their life is smooth, functional, the gear-shifting easy. When I try to become them, I fall apart and sink, and believe I have failed.

But I would not ask of a river that she becomes a tree. Of a bird that they crawl low like a snake in the fields. I would not ask nature to be anything but what she is. So why would I ask it of myself?

I am not linear, smooth, functionnal. I ebb and flow and like the tide I leave behind a mess of scattered fragments when I disappear. The change, the obsessive whirlwind, are omens of a life well-lived. Natural, intuitive, powerful. I need not strive to exist any other way.