The Book of the Dead.

I am not a tree to be planted; in that I cannot stand tall in such stronge winds.

I am not a rain cloud; in that I cannot so easily remove, and release my own heaviness.

I am a complexity; a being that holds a universe within themselves, but so carries all weaknesses within a single shell.

A mind with access to every answer, but the question still alludes them.

I am someone else's dream.
I was in the trees, I was apart of the sea, I moved in the wind, I lived on the edge of eagle's wings.

I am the stardust, the morning mist,
The sunlight through the bow.

I am but a shell now, a lowly thing, a single cell working with billions to create this thing that is not me.

I've become darkness, shadows call me.
I feel a pull to somewhere far beyond myself or my understanding.
I only fear pain, but not that which must come to pass.

I celebrate all the times, and all the spaces I can hide in, fall in or slowly die in, be far removed from my own humanity.

Be far removed from the present moment, so far that my nightmares can't find me.

So far that I myself cannot find me.
Far removed from this living state, just dancing in limbo between the land of the living, and the land of the dead.

There are things already written for me, for whatever reason I cannot change it.

I have one foot in life, and the other standing on death's grounds.
I've become everything and nothing at all, my skin cannot hold me, my bones cannot contain me, my real life is in dreams of death.

I am and will be released from my confinement, I am and will be freed from this state of being.

I am and will return to a state; flowing like water, I will be in everything, I will not be bound by shape, no reason they can make.

I myself will know love and death, and then the appointed hour will come, I will know the time, others will not.

On that day, on that night; even I will embrace pain, and accept my fate, then;
I will leave limbo.