I cannot decide between what I am trying to be. I feel that I must stick to one thing. But I am many things and nothing in the same manner.

I don’t wish to be tied to one thing for the rest of my life, in the same manner, I fear failing at everything I’ve ever tried to build simply because I couldn’t stick to it.

I am a writer, a poet, an architect, a lover, a daughter, a woman, a girl, an artist, a man. I cannot be one thing, nor can I be many things with the same intensity. Or rather, with the same success.

I wake up everyday with at least one part of me in the altar waiting to be sacrificed. the more I postpose the sacrifice, the more versions of me are sacrificed.

Today I’ve woken up as a writer, but the architect must wait anxiously its release, without any certainty.

Yesterday I woke up as an architect, but the rest of me was caged without any hope liveliness.

I cannot choose and that is my tragedy, life chooses for me, or so I believe. Watching the figs fall one by one as I lay crippled under the tree—unable to taste the fruits I’ve planted.

You must sacrifice what was in order for what is yet to be they say. But what if I was nothing, nothing but masks I choose to wear every single day.

I’ve come to a state that is beyond humanness and I cannot go back to what was sacrificed—my being.

Today I am comforted by my nothingness, tomorrow anguished by the void. Yesterday, yearning for a change…and so on…and so on…

The more I remain, the more I die, the more parts of me are repelled by my entropy. The more they escape my constitution.

I know not whether to pick up the pieces of myself escaping, or make the impossible decision—that of chasing one single piece and letting the other fruits fade into the soil of endless potential.

I know not what I am, but I wish to find out. I cannot find everything I am looking for, that is what saddens me. if I were to be a successful writer, I would never know the beauty of an architect, of being a simple woman. The beauty of not questioning anything.

I find that it is far easier for me to be nothing than to be everything, though I know they are extremes of the same line.

Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom they say, but what if it was rather a consequence of freedom?  

I hate to wake up everyday deciding what must I become today, what must I let go off. What must I sacrifice, I’ve already lost myself too many times.

And so I hold on to everything like a child refusing to grow.

All I desire is freedom, not one that you can roam free in the world, but one granted from the internal tyrant under the name of regret, under the sentence of “ what if “

Perhaps that freedom lies in sacrificing one single person, and that is the inner divisor of identities.

Perhaps it is dissolving the illusion of being separate of all that one is.

Perhaps it is the distinction between being and the belief about what must be.

Perhaps it isn’t about becoming one thing but rather choosing freedom with each day to come.

To catch the sweetest figs before they rot.

Perhaps it is about being.