22 months worth of questions,
twist the torso to become doubts.
I resurface to find the wave drown me once more.
was it the quality of work?
was it the frequency of conversations?
was it the location of growth?
or was it the intelligence of my neurons?
Tree with limbs so low, one can climb.
Darkness with road well paved, one can traverse.
Me, myself and I
fight the battles of volume.
I realized today, the best are not usually the loudest.
But whom is heard? The best or the loudest?
Art is a game of vanity,
didn't I know that already from the very beginning.
If I should not identify myself with what I do,
then why do I do?
What is in the do for me?
What is in me for the do?
limb is hanging by a thread,
yet time must continue.