the air is thin here. it does not forgive me for my past deeds. the air is suffocatingly dense here. it poisons my future. the air is full of tiny motes of light, as orb-weavers who want nothing more than today.

i piece together fragments of my sought-out surroundings, careful to avoid the ubiquitous motes of light. with these, i slowly but surely burn away 20 years, 16 years, 8 years, 6 years, 22 years of carefully misconstructed camouflage.

a searing square-wave figure reminds me of last night's beautiful, useful futility. i timidly match the tone with my voice. i feel like i am choking on the days that created me. i sound like it too. now i have no choice but to push on, and try to make things right at last.

if no choice is given, i must do what i can myself. if i have no place to belong, i will make my own, carve out a tiny corner and fill it with soft things and what safety i can muster and all the gentleness i have ever tried and failed to provide. this place is not quite at the edge of everything but also is in its own way. it is out of view of the ubiquitous motes of light, for today. they may have been here yesterday. they will be here tomorrow.

i momentarily return to my chrysalis, hellbent on having another crisis of faith. all i can do anymore is shape experiences into something or another, but i can never be sure if it will reach someone who it can help. if it does not, who or what it reaches instead is a frightening consideration.

my left hand smells like metal after an unnervingly successful session of committing memories to memory.

i keep hearing about strength. i hear how someone is strong, and someone else is weak. i hear so many ways to measure these things and more and more "strength" sounds unappealing.

"that reading can't be right, the machine isn't working"

and yet, despite their best efforts...

i'm still here.

i can never forget them. any of them.