You gnaw at my belly, demanding attention. "Feed me, feed me NOW!" you scream. I have grown skilled in ignoring you. If not that, I am taking bites of shadow comforts to quiet the constant complaining. Anything that will keep you from calling again for me to do this work of becoming real. It's easier to chase after the next new thing, to mold myself after someone else. But then, there you are, clawing your way up from the center of my being, to my throat, reaching for the air and light that will give life back to you.