The end of us showed me
That goodness and happiness does not mean
You have arrived.

Does anyone ever “You’ve finally made it,” and remain?

You are what made me grow out of
The child’s faith in perfection
in love
And destiny
to realize are meer fantasies
(I wear womens sizes now)
The only reliables are internal and solitary.
But even these should never be sedentary

Why do we perpetuate dreams? Ended, hopeless, never to be fairytales, are these.

Now I ache for reality.

Is that yet another hopeless dream?

Someone, teach me to not be a dreamer,
yet retain joy.

Is such a state possible?

How far does maturity go?

Perhaps it’s non-linear, too.

I am learning life does not culminate with our desires.
Is there no such thing as arrival?