Without Stories

I grow increasingly aware of the thoughts traveling through my head. 

Stories about me and my world. 

Neither thoughts nor collection of stories 

are who I really am--no matter how glorious or ugly they may be. 

I am beyond. 

Wanting very much to let go of the whirl and stickiness 

of condemning and overly demanding words. 

For much of my lifetime, I have cultivated being nice and good. 

If I am every able to let go, who would I be?
I imagine feeling lighter. 

Less serious or worried. 

If I were able to reach this blank slate, 

would I finally know freedom?