The multitude of lives I will never be.
The people, alive or dead, existent or non-existent, who I will never meet.
The future that waits for the stranger in the crowd but never waits for me.
The other side of the world, where lives intersect, where events vibrate and colorize; but I sleep.
Those experiences that maliciously hide from me—
the mountains, seas, and flowers that I am eternally blind to,
the conversations in corners and alleys that my ears are closed to,
the other pieces of my love and darkness that tightly curl themselves away in the cracks of existence.
I can never be whole because there is too much I want to be but also not one thing in the world I want to be.
All possible lives, experiences, and dreams, are simply not enough—not enough.