Sometimes I wish I could be more than just human—maybe a poem or a painting, something that exists beyond the weight of flesh and bone. A poem, where each word carries the essence of my being, flowing effortlessly, not bound by the laws of time or the exhaustion of emotion. Or perhaps a painting, where my essence is captured in colors, lines, and textures that express more than I ever could with my voice. Imagine being eternal in that way, suspended in ink or paint, unburdened by the mundane struggles of life. I wouldn't need to sleep, to eat, to feel the ache of existence. I would just be—something to be admired, pondered, and understood without explanation. A creation of pure feeling, unchained by the limitations of what it means to be human. Maybe then, I would finally feel like I belong.
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