It’s about having something,
A well to draw from,
A life to put in, an experience to harbour.
Creating existence from a lived existence.
Of which I lack, of which I am empty.
The words come from an imagined place,
An imagined life; a created one.
It sounds simple, though it is anything but.
Finding meaning, finding soul… narrative,
It’s a life’s work, a heavy heave.
And for what, I ask myself?
Like anything, the answer eludes.
It is to be done; yet, to be done is all it is.
For that well, that well of reality;
Some day I wish for it to be full.
But until then, a world created isn’t so terrible.