I finally began to comprehend,
that it wasn't me forcing change by the moon's farewell and the morning's wake.
It wasn't my family, my friends, or my classmates.
It wasn't fate, time, chemistry, or inforcement.
In truth, it was the faint voice in my head, whispering sweet-nothings, 
and confusing my motives.
It was the pounding of my head and throat,
begging me to hit the snooze button one last time,
roll out of bed, and brew a cup of coffee.
It was that book I discovered at the library,
speaking of faraway places, scientific discoveries,
and remedies for the wandering soul.
It was finding a companion after years of solitary,
someone to sit at the kitchen table with
and speak of life and its greatest elements.
It was that new song on the radio,
that riveting television show,
that photograph with memories and nostaglia beneath it's surface.
It wasn't anyone in paticular that changed my views and desires.
It was materials and references and inspiration and creation,
building up walls and knocking them down,
leaping over puddles when they seemed like menecing oceans,
picking a single daisy out of a field of weeds.
If only others would realize too,
that change is only a direct result,
of the world,
and how you make it your own.