Driftwood

I've always liked driftwood.  Don't know if it's the smooth lines, interesting texture, or maybe it's just the way I like to imagine how that piece of wood came to be found by me.  What its story is.  But it occurs to me now, that some days I really feel like a piece of driftwood.  Cast off from the world and set adrift here at home.  Lost in the sea of toddlerhood.  At the mercy of their elements, with no idea where I'm heading most of the time.  Simply glad to be afloat at the end of the day, albeit waterlogged.  Bleached by the sun, but glad for its warmth.  What was once rough, now smoothed by the wind.  What was once smooth, now cracked from exposure.  And occasionally I find myself washed up on some remote beach that isn't on anybody's map.  Where no one knows how to reach me.  And where I'm not sure I want to be found anyway.  Not looking like this...  But then I consider myself.  Rough and worn.  Faded and far from where I started.  But beautiful, just the same.  Not for how I appear though.  Certainly not.  But for my purpose.  For the path already travelled and the journey yet to come.  And for what I can still offer.  Weathered though I may be, and just exactly as I am.