I am still picking up the pieces
of what I imagined I would be.

Some of them are easy to find;
they are close by,
they shine brightly,
calling for attention.

They group together in clusters,
little galaxies of habit, pattern, routine.

But others are further away,
alone, quiet,
easy to miss.

They lie in the shadows,
dusty, dim, forgotten.

I am looking for those pieces,
before they are lost
to the winds
of forgetting,
spiralling away to aimlessness,
as the pattern is lost.