This question has recently made me wonder a lot, “Who do you want to become?” And when burdened by a question to whose meaning knows no end, it is hard for to not think and drown in its never-ending spiral. “Is my faith enough?”, “Am I good enough?”, “Do I deserve what I have?’
In all these questions, they have the same tone of self-doubt, but in a way, they might come to be seen as an insult. And when drowning in these thoughts, I remembered what I had once read in a book, it not only doubted silk but in a way insulted it for being so fine and beautiful. And then it dawned upon me, do I wish to become the cloth which is fine and beautiful or the silkworm whose life only meant a very tiny fraction? In the poem below, I contemplate on this very thought and though who you are is not always certain but what you feel momentarily is in no way an illusion,
This world is horrid, And so are the lives, And I can’t help, But leave everything behind. These dark roads might never see light, And I can’t wait much longer to see them die. I follow this road, Or perhaps it follows me, Like a dark dismal shadow, Watching over me. I am nothing to them, And they are nothing to me. But my demons keep chasing me. “Is she worthy?” they wonder, As if worth was made of silk. As if my existence could ever be uncovered. I am to you, my lord, The dust and the dirt, And nothing more I shall ever be. I might be the weed or the flower, But they can never really see me. Don’t make me the silk, But the worm that sacrifices, Whoose every strand is enchanted, And let the magic that flows within me, Be your music. For I am no one but a lover, Lying down in your bed, my lord, Waiting to die under your light, And come to a place where everything is truly alive.
