the shape of the self

The Self grows as a vibrant green blade of grass, strong and sharp, shooting towards the sun, thriving between the cracks of the sidewalk. It skips in the warm rain, leaping from one puddle to the next, splashing the chilly stone walls of its alley. The Self twirls in the sparkling, dancing dust, lit by the sky. It revels with bright laughter when it finds an exit ajar. It creeps slowly through the door, shivering at the darkness inside. The Self fearlessly marches on, even though it hears the faint echoing of the alley calling it back. The Self stumbles and crawls. It stands, wincing at its bruises and scrapes. The Self is lost, and as soon as its eyes begin to glisten, it disappears.

The Self is a wide expanse of black sky, punctured by billions of ways out, none within reach. The Self rests inside the quiet old man who watches the window with a concerned wrinkle in his forehead. The Self blisters on the heel, rubbed raw by a new pair of shoes. It paints lavishly on canvases it will never sell. The Self sleeps beside the nightlight, glowing valiantly in the dark. The Self holds the warmth of his arms, in the hugs she keeps precious. It walks innocently into the master bedroom, woken by the cold hand of a nightmare. The Self shines in joy at the first sight of a tiny sprout, after weeks of expectations. It falls softly with the snow, blanketing the frozen, wilted leaves of autumn. The Self rises in smoke from the blown out candles of my whichever birthday, as the waves crashed against the rocks outside, and he sat beside me, and I was smiling.