Poetry,  Written literature | Author's writings

Some people are maps, others are places on them

I believe some people are ships,
other destinations.
People sail through people,
and many arrive at their destination
only when they become ships,
but nothing more than that, nothing less.

I believe everyone has a map.

Some people are maps,
others are places on them.
Me, I’m caught
trying to swim
over the edges of it.
My journeys were ambitious,
but ambition swallows man
when he thinks his essence is the ocean.
It’s not.

They tried to use me
as a means of transport,
until they reach the mainland,
always afraid to feel the water on their skin.
And they are.
They would kick me out on land,
and I, clinging to my own
body like a lifeboat,
I hoped my depths would
become waves that will await another day,
the waves that will crash ships,
only to turn them to another destination.

Who am I now?
I was someone’s compass once,
event horizon,
calendar of unfulfilled dates.
At dusk, I showed the sides of the world,
pointed to someone
in which direction to go,
and then waited
to the shore to drag me into its ground.
I am grateful to have stayed onshore.
If it was different
some people would only be compasses,
and the other side of the world
which no one wants to visit.

I am the world on my own,
and let others dare to show my sides.


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