I couldn’t quite tell you where I lost myself, I just know it happened. I can’t elaborate on the intricacies of how, when, where or what caused it, either. Just that it happened as effortlessly as a pouring of Woodford and Ginger after a long day, or staring into the eyes of a loved one and feeling like you belong.
I’m not sure if I dropped pieces of my soul on the steep, winding streets of San Francisco, or if I coincidentally left it in the coziness of Chipotle next to the University of Denver. Perhaps it’s scattered along the everlasting expanses and vicarious views I’d like to live as a part of on Big Sur that I tried to fit in my heart, and it went missing long ago. There’s a distinct likelihood it’s in the subways of Boston, DC, or NYC.
I could understand if it was ashamed of me for declaring this summer to be one of freedom, but turning it into finding freedom in falling in love. I couldn’t be mad in the slightest if my worries as of late ate it alive and picked their teeth with what was left of my aspirations. No, no. I couldn’t be upset.
The likelihood is almost definite that I was born without one - a shell as all humans are at birth; waiting to be filled with love, or even the alternatives. I’m not sure. I just know I seek a great perhaps which councidentally aligns with my quest for a self I’ve misplaced.