The Wrong Questions

Be it the tired archetype
of the hero’s return or
a regression, I find
solace in a simplicity
I had long since
forgotten how to enjoy.

But am I finding my footing
or stagnating, am
I waiting
on myself or the world, does
it matter, am
I asking
the wrong questions or
is that
the wrong question?
And so
it goes, destroying
the peace I thought
I was seeking.
So it goes
and I think:

at which level
of recursive self-doubt
did my purpose unravel,
did wonder become panic,
did this refuge
become quicksand?



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