My nightmares as a child had no echoes of falling or screams of teeth falling out;
they held demons with the face of change and hands to pick me up and move me while all I could do was lay limp.
I had such a deep rooted fear of losing everything I knew
of being dropped in the middle of the Pacific with no land in sight
that it became almost paralyzing.
I spent years begging for complacency,
for something to hold me tight and steady to the moving ground
change is all I crave.
I begin to itch if I find myself in the same town for too long or surrounded by the same voices for too many months.
I can’t survive without drasticity, without a revolving door of life altering movements.
Maybe it’s because somewhere along the line,
the constant changes in my life became so overwhelming that I thought I needed to make some of my own
that maybe then,
I could have something to hold onto.
Maybe it’s because my indecisive nature has turned this ever-changing chaos into a self identity,
a way to assure myself that I know at least one certain thing,
even if that one thing will be gone in the morning.