Lost. Found.

Today I am torn between giving my all, and giving my nothing at all.

I would always want to give my all, but when you cannot seem to find what is inside of you, what can you try to give?

I can see fragments of 'things' in me. Or perhaps 'qualities', but they are in disguise, nonchalant, floating.

I try and pluck them, peel them. Nothing comes of it.

I imagine walking down a street where the sun is bright, almost blinding, and the sky lies back in magnificent blue. My footsteps are light, and my soul and brain are holding hands. Or my mind, or my spirit. Or all of the above.

I do not doubt myself in this picture. I smile to passing strangers, my heels click and my lips are comfortable, not twisted tight. I can almost cup the openness of my chest, the windswept parts of my roomy heart.

Perhaps it is Autumn, or Spring. Late Summer even. I do not have to worry too much to remember my coat, or put two pairs of socks on, or wonder why my hand is turning a dainty purple despite my gloves, and the pumping of my elbow against the slapping fizz of an icy wind.

In this moment, I am exactly who I need to be. Who I am, unapologetic, determined yet relaxed.

My shoulders have not crumpled up around my neck. My eyes are clear, I am ready to speak when spoken to. I do not stumble over words. I slip through the net, and I am new in each moment.

To wear colour and be not afraid, not even realise I am wearing so much colour. To paint and not constantly question the process, or the act.

To own any talents I find I might own.