At what point does one move from thinking “I’m not enough” to believing that self-worth is determined by things other than just a self-crippling disbelief…?

Like knowing what one lives for,
Finding something so deeply connected to one’s individuality that it “just makes sense”… Or does it? Maybe it’s time to search within.

I don’t think it’s about finding one’s passion. After all, how does one find, nay, discover, something that is so innate, so inherent that it infuses the very essence of one’s personality?

I keep searching for meaning.
Like water searches for the comfort of bubbles,
Likes trees engulfed in the rustling of their own branches,
Like clouds fascinated by the seeming shapes they become.

I keep searching for meaning.
Is it because the idea of constantly searching for something gives me purpose?
Is it because I have no clue sometimes where to direct my curiosity?

I keep searching for meaning.
Because things *need* to make sense.
No matter how chaotic they are.

I search for meaning. Compulsively.
I revel in the perpetual felicity of expectation.
I revel in looking out of the window and watching the trees move.
Somehow, they are moving faster than I do.

If I’m completely honest, I’m also searching for the need to disconnect, the need to let go. Wishing the drizzling rains carried the answers. There’s a part of me that wonders whether I’m searching just for meaning or for another variation of my identity. Am I looking for myself in this asymmetrical melody?

I long to become the multi-coloured leaves.
I long to become the brightest of rainbows.
I long to become the fire-red petals swaying in my mind.
I long to become the still waters.
I long to just be.