i was a foreigner

I was a foreigner. A stranger. A lonely wanderer, longing to find my place. I was two pages — one written on and torn, the other whole and clean. I drifted wherever the wind blew, Tossed and turned, swept into shadowed alleys. Still untouched. Still so alone. I flew over empty fields. Into abandoned homes. I saw other people’s lives — watched their stories unfold. I fought the urge to fall beneath any hand that might claim me — a pen, a pencil, a purpose. I craved the touch. Craved meaning. And yet I loved the purity, even as I loathed the shredded half that clung to me. I wanted to be chosen. To be filled with meaning. But the eternal war between freedom and purpose kept me flying forward. I still drift where the wind commands. I fly through blood-red sunsets and sleepless white nights. Through burning towers and silent country homes. I pause on tree branches or old garden fences, Until the wind lifts me once more. I am clean. I am free. I fly through the world unafraid — Unafraid to be myself. Unafraid to be the contrast that lives inside me. Unafraid to be untouched. Unafraid of what others may think. True to myself. True to what created me.