storm

It was a storm, I hear. Though truth be told it was a drizzle. Our present is always bigger than our past. Unless we need to prove our past is bigger than someone else's. We craft our great adventures in our chosen words. We shape the descent of moisture as a tempest. We see the gentle breeze as our own hurricane. We feast on the pride of our fears. We drink to the mighty conquest of our struggles. Everything is bigger to the small ones, yet we'd claim ourselves mighty.

And that is it: we do not know ourselves. A mouse knows its own size. A tree knows its height. A dog knows who to come to for food. But we do not know our place. We like the questions, but not the answers. Questions can be shaped to make us bigger or smaller as we see fit. Answers don't move. So we will just ask the question and not listen for an answer. We will make our answers as we shaped this storm. That which best fits our story; that which gives our image the glint of the exotic. Our answers are the clothes we buy to dress up in.

We are not who we are, we are who we say we are. We are not who we are, we are who we want to be. That is the story from our lips. That is how we dress up our mirrors. That is how we would would save our lives from truth.

All that to say, it was just a drizzle.