Filled with possibility.
I gravitate toward these.
I am as interested in the blank page as I am in the words written on it. Perhaps more. There is so much possibility before the first mark is made. I feel this way with my own life. Hesitant to commit to a single choice, lest I mar the open range of potential inherent in the spaciousness before choice is made. Who am I? I ask this question again and again and wonder who I am before the first thought of Angelina begins to arise. Where am I then, before the horizon of self is hemmed in on all sides by a story of being?