MISSING: My Former Self
Last Seen: Spinning inside a metaphor.
Somewhere between burnout and breakthrough, I misplaced the version of myself who used to plan everything. The new one seems to run on chaos, intuition, and epic playlists.
She doesn’t always show up on schedule, but when she does—she writes.
Here’s another a-muze-ing bit for the archives:
Grief Brought Me My Missing Poster
This morning, Grief showed up at my door holding a piece of paper. He looked proud of himself.
“I made this for you,” he said.
It was a missing poster.
“What in the hell is this?” I asked.
“A courtesy notice,” he replied. “You’ve been missing for weeks.”
The audacity.
I scanned it — eyes too wide, mouth too sarcastic for breakfast.
There I was: cartoon features exaggerated to divine comedy — black beanie, Gir necklace glinting like a symbol of my crimes.
I looked up at him. “You realize I’m literally standing right here?”
Grief shrugged, all nonchalance and dark humor.
“Physically, sure. But existentially? You left the chat.”
I hate when he’s right.
But I poured him coffee — because apparently that’s what we do now — and sat down to read my own missing poster over burnt toast. And damn it, it was accurate. I had wandered off somewhere between creation and collapse, spinning too fast, forgetting I could stop.
He took a sip, satisfied. “See? Not an accusation. Just an observation.”
I sighed. “You’re insufferable.”
He smiled — the faintest, proudest curve.
“I know. But I find people better than anyone.”
I cackled — couldn’t help it. So true.
The day began sipping cold coffee and reading my own missing poster:
MISSING: My Former Self
Last Seen: Somewhere between, “Sure, I can handle it,” and, “Actually, no, I cannot.”
Eating a beef stick inside the centrifuge of enlightenment. Wandering in the direction of Metaphor.
Distinguishing Features: unfinished to-do lists, a mysterious coffee stain shaped like California, and a tendency to monologue about music as if it’s a religion.
Goes by: Mom, Mommy, Breanne, Bre, Bruh, Dude.
If found, approach at a cautious saunter.
Offer snacks. Speak gently. She spooks easily and may attempt to reorganize your emotional metaphors on sight.
Unhelpful Suggestions (Not an Exhaustive List — Use Discrimination)
“Have you tried turning yourself off and back on again?”
Yes, she did. It’s called sleep. No significant change observed.
“You’ve changed. I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”
Her reply: “Good. I was getting suspiciously consistent.”
Reward:
One genuine exhale, an unbothered afternoon, and the Next Chapter.
(If returned, please leave her at the nearest coffee shop with a notebook and a sense of purpose. She’ll find her way home.)
💭 Feeling bubble (because I probably should):
There’s something oddly tender about realizing you’ve outgrown your inhibition.
The person you’re searching for wouldn’t even recognize the you who laughs now.
So don’t worry about me, dear void. Every time I get lost, I get better at finding my way home. Lost is looking more like a metaphor every day.
? Does any of this make sense to anyone ?
Raise your hand and speak into my good ear if it does.
Thank you. End Transmission.