My mind

A curious theatre with no closing hour,

Where countless versions of myself perform.

One is a dreamer,

painting impossible futures across the curtains.

One is a skeptic,

arms folded, questioning every brushstroke.

One is a child,

delighted by the smallest wonders.

One is a worrier,

forever rehearsing disasters that never arrive.

At times,

I am my own muse.

They have discussions that go on for hours

And finally they arrive at verdict

Which form my opinions and beliefs.

Some questions go unanswered.

Sometimes they ambush me

And push me,

And suddenly a passing cloud

Has convinced me the sky is gone.

My mind is remarkably skilled

at building labyrinths from whispers.

Yet sometimes it can spend entire day

Staring out of the window at flowers.

There are moments

when a ridiculous thought appears uninvited,

and I find myself laughing alone.

A mysterious powerhouse

Which can cause unfathomable maladies

Or suspiciously

Cure ailments with just it’s faith.

How strange and wonderful,

to be both the performer

and the crowd.

And perhaps that is what self-love is for me—

Not the absence of conflict,

But the acceptance of complexity.

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