Life pulls the bliss of freedom from my veins. It burns as I surrender to her asking. A vine grown from the tree of my youth. What will I become? The question hangs in the air like a luminaire’s song. I am curious to the answer but I wander through all the blood in my story. I don’t recognise it, but I recognise other parts and pieces. They extort me from myself. How can I be anything other than what I am? I tried to and this was my curse. And now I am here and I am at peace in my pain. It longs for release but it also asks for none. So it’s just me. I’m the wandering soul of my own making. What will I become? I ask this again. I note it like the lines from a notebook that repeat over and over, blue and red, words flow between the spaces in each line. What will I become? I could talk forever and never let go of this notion. I could become something ‘beautiful’ (they consider) but I will never be or embody it if I am not first free. I see myself as the swan’s pain, hidden beneath final curtains. Where do I belong? What maps are there other than this one? I carry them inside my heart and they yearn to be free in and of themselves. But somehow I draw back. Over and over. I rewrite and I change but nobody knows or sees this change. It is permanently imminent. I can never settle and I can never be free. I can never move and I can never be still. Yet I am moving with painted suede. I am the asker and the giver, the teller and the receiver. I am all of these stories and words and I am hidden behind glass. Is it painted? If it is, it is painted with blood. Blood of dozens and of myself. My final selves. Repeating themselves over and over. Who knows? Who cares? Who sees? Where do I wander to when I am lost? Where will I go when I am surely found? What song will be sung as my name? Who am I to ask anyone of that? Yet my heart yearns to request it. A final play. The spin of the disc and nothing more. Just to be heard. Let it rain. I endure. I am.