some 7 where days

its been seven years
and all that is left for me to mull over
is the long wait to get virtually nowhere
but a good place for me to start.
and now i am unpacking all my shit,
trying to be still enough to see my real face
in the mirror and for all pretenses,
i dont know what exactly i should be feeling
and my face gives into raw emotion
the kind of nothing that i can feel with tingles
and electric anuity that promises to stem from new found feedom.
i am a blank slate that is somehow basking in the moment
not needing to retrace the pinings of histories
already enslaved once-ago-way-back-when