Becoming
- A. del Castillo
- Aug 17
- 1 min read
I used to beg the road to straighten,
to give me signs as I took each step.
But now — I walk with open hands.
There’s a hush in this in-between,
a breath held between what was and what might be.
Each closed door whispers of one unseen, opening.
Each ending, a soft echo: “Trust me, I know what comes next.”
I no longer need to know my next step.
The becoming is enough.
The shifting, the stirring —
are not signs of being lost, but of being written.
I am not finished.
I am not forgotten.
I am not forsaken.
I am clay in kind hands.
Trusting is not knowing the shape
but in knowing the Potter.

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