Hold

I take a hand within my hand. I step within a step. I turn with a turn, and I hold with a hold. But I know not the truth. To reach my hand and take a step would be to turn from what I hold. And I hold what is but a lie.

What is true, and what is not? What is new, and what is lost? That my actions be without subject? For the hand I held was but my own. My step in the wrong direction. I turned to see what I had missed, that my hold was but too weak.

It was I all along. Here is there no other. The steps I took, I took alone. No guidance where I go. Was the brush I felt but only me? Was the gaze I held my sight? Who took my hand and turned with me if I hold only myself?

For whom did I so deeply feel? For what was set my heart? Was it true, or was it not? Is what was new what now is lost? If it is lost, was it a lie? How can I hold what never was?

If I never took a hand, how can I let it go? If I know not whence I came, then whither shall I go? Each step I took was my direction. Each turn, my future's own. Now what am I? And who am I? If my gaze no longer catches? If there's nothing more to see?

I would beg you your forgiveness. But such is but for me.