A response to the query that every mid 20’s, semi-adult habitually avoids

I recognize this. I feel this…

Much respect



He told me, if I was an artist,

you’d be my muse.

I smiled, blushed, and said thank you.

Later, he asked me:

“What are you doing here?” I answered: “I like the city,

so I came.”

Then he asked, “What’s your dream? If you could do anything,

what would it be?”

And I confessed: I don’t know.

The question what do you want

still evades me. Because the answer, for me

has no concrete object.

It has lines & shapes, colors and images…

Details, but no whole.

I know

that I like words, and toying with their construction.

I like poetry

because of the way poems inhabit the space of a moment, freeing that moment

from its temporal boundaries.

But I can’t say whether I dream of publishing a novel that rocks people’s worlds,

because my mind can’t yet fathom a space that grand.

I can feel the textures of my future life,

but the thoroughfares of…

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