The Art of Becoming

I have lived my life according to rules that no longer apply.

I don’t have to be silent, angry, incredibly hurt and grieving.

Fifty-five now and practising

The Art of Becoming.

Becoming comfortable in my skin. Making peace with being the squeaky wheel, the outcast, the liar.

Rejected for telling the truth, I didn’t know who I was any more. None of my assigned roles were really me.

I decided I want to really live before I die. Listening to myself and not the clamor of voices telling me who I was, who I should be.

I see their lips moving, but I don’t hear them any more.

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