Strip of cloth

(Hand embroidery Byzantine Fragments)

I sat across from my advisor, talking about a future in accounting—a future I never genuinely pictured for myself. For most of my life, I had dreams far from the office, but somewhere along the way, I found myself here, claiming a career that feels more like a choice than a calling. "Yes, I've always wanted to be an accountant because of my mom," I said, while it's quite the opposite. 

I can’t help but feel a quiet envy for those who steer their lives with such purpose. Somehow, I've lost my direction, like a car drifting off the road, struggling to find my own path. I still want to make an impact, to be remembered, to do something more than just fit in. Time is unkind, and being ordinary feels like disappearing entirely. Yet, here I am, stripped of those bright dreams I once held so close—dreams of being someone bold, someone who left a mark. I used to imagine myself as an artist, vibrant and fearless. Now, with each passing year, those dreams feel more like memories, fading into the background as I face the reality of growing up.

As I walked out of the room, a mix of emotions weighed on me—hope, resignation, and a quiet acceptance. Now, I'm just a strip of colorless cloth, worn thin, where once there was vibrance and ambition.