Metamorphism of Change

I wake to the weight of the same old air, the same sun spilling through the blinds, but something in me stirs, a quiet restlessness, unnamed. I trace the outlines of my days, familiar grooves worn deep, each step predictable, each hour rehearsed, yet something whispers, shift. But into what? Into where? The road ahead is mist and question marks, a map with edges torn away, a compass that only spins. I long to shed this skin, to carve myself into someone new, but who? But how? And what if I’m only chasing ghosts? Change hums beneath my ribs, a pressure building, unseen, like stone beneath the weight of time, yearning to be something more. And maybe that’s enough for now, this tremor of becoming, this slow erosion of the known, this quiet metamorphism of change.