I left before the morning with a pocket full of names that never seemed to fit me, wearing faces just the same. Every town had its instructions, every stranger knew the rules, how to measure someone's worth, how to polish different fools. I learned to smile at questions I could never answer well. Some called it independence, some just said I couldn't settle. I kept moving. Not because I knew the road... because standing still always felt like borrowing someone else's life. There were days I thought the fault was mine, that somewhere deep inside a single missing piece kept every door half closed. Then I met a man who carved birds from driftwood. He said, *"The sea never asks a tree to become a boat. People do that."* I carried those words further than I carried anything else. After that the road seemed different. Not kinder... just wider. I stopped counting how many places had no room for me. I started wondering if they were never mine to belong to. Maybe every wrong turning was only another way of leaving somewhere that could never recognise me. Maybe every closed gate was protecting a path I hadn't reached yet. And if hope is only another journey, perhaps that's enough. Perhaps the place I've been searching for has been travelling towards me all this time. When I finally arrive I don't expect to feel repaired. I expect to stop pretending. To fit without explanation. To stand still for the first time and realise I was never a broken wheel. Only part of the wrong machine.
