But I have lost myself in a million other people. I’m no longer fluent in my own language. I’ve consumed so many dreams that weren’t mine, I don’t recognise the hunger of my own longing.

The hunger to be everything was only ever a longing to be loved.

And in your stillness, in the tender ordinary of your unlabelled life, you will realise: solitude—true presence, is not the death of meaning. It is the birthplace of it.

This is the slow disintegration of self beneath the illusion that we can be anything, everything, all at once.

We do not just suffer from an abundance of options, we suffer from a lack of commitment.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what I wanted and started asking what would look impressive.

I am grieving a life I’ve been disloyal to; too busy auditioning for all the ones I could have instead.

And I do not want more doors—I want to walk through one without looking back. I want to love something long enough to feel it love me in return. I want to lay foundations on imperfect soil and call it home anyway.

But I have lost myself in a million other people. I’m no longer fluent in my own language. I’ve consumed so many dreams that weren’t... See more

I am a thousand almosts, held together by hesitation; a gallery of repainted selves.