Wholemosaic

I don’t know how to become whole again. I mean, how do you search for something when you can’t narrow down what exactly is missing? When you don’t even know what searching means in the first place? I think I am the same, yet I can feel myself changing. I notice it now. The only things I’ve lost, I’d like to think they are still within more. Broken and shattered but there all the same. I will pick up the pieces, no matter how deeply they may cut me. No matter how much I bleed. No matter how crooked and messy they may be when put back into place. I will accept my changes by letting myself cling to the past. I am old, I am new, I am here. I am a mosaic of rainy day memories and the smell of febreze and the anger in the clenched fist of a boy told not to cry. I am Whole.