Fragments of Cassandra

There are people who move through life as though certainty is a language that everyone else learned in childhood. 

They point north without trembling.
They fall in love without counting exits.
They wake each morning certain
their feet belong to the road beneath them.

And then there are people like me
holding a compass that spins
every time my heart beats too hard.

I have spent years asking questions
What do I want?
Who will I become?
How do you know when a life is finally yours
instead of something you survived into?

Some days, my mind feels like a cup
with only a few trembling drops inside;
little certainties,
little wants,
small fragile truths I protect

The rest is empty space.
Unknown.
Unwritten.
A silence so vast
it echoes.

But I am learning
that the cup is still a cup
even when it is not full.

A person is still a person
even when they do not know
where their hands belong,
who they will love forever,
or whether happiness was ever meant
to stay in their life long enough
to memorize the shape of it.

I think that has always been my sorrow
not the absence of joy,
but my inability to trust it
when it arrives.

Love has always felt like sand to me.
Beautiful. Warm. Temporary.

No matter how tightly I close my fists,
it slips through anyway.
Grain by grain.
Moment by moment.

And I stand there helpless,
watching entire oceans disappear
through the spaces between my fingers.

But maybe love was never meant
to be held violently.

Maybe that is why
the small drops in my cup matter so much.

The certainties.
The wants.
The tiny pieces of hope
I keep trying to abandon

Because when poured gently,
even a little water
can soften the sand.

And wet sand holds together differently.
Not because it is trapped;
but because it is held with care and intention

Maybe people are the same way.

Maybe I do not need every answer
to deserve a future.
Maybe I do not need certainty
to deserve love.
Maybe happiness does not ask us
to understand it completely
before it sits beside us.

Maybe all this time
I have mistaken questioning for avoidance.

When really,
I was only human
a cup still becoming full,
hands learning to hold,
heart learning to accept
that not everything beautiful
is destined to leave.


Be’ahava,
Cassandra

This fragment is dedicated to the drifting heart that calls nowhere and everywhere home.