You are always here, in my darkest moments to my brightest minutes,
you are never truly gone;
a constant extension of myself, like another limb, yet not one attached to my own body,
another part of me with their own personality and perspectives.
Your name is Bryoria.
(I chose the name for you and you loved it. It's never quit sounding unique.)
(It comes from the scientific name for a genus of lichenized fungi.)
You are a coyote, dhole, wolf, dog, whitetail buck, little house-cat, even a maned lioness.
(Every once in a while you're even humanoid…)
There are countless shapes you take, but your favorites are the canine critters.
It's interesting to me, that I see myself in all felines, yet you are seemingly the inverse:
you'd rather identify as something, anything, that barks, wags its tail, and yips.
We both snarl, though.
In the same ways.
We both get anxious like the other does.
I've put you through some serious hell. In comparison, you've never been anything but kind,
but tolerant,
but patient,
never anywhere but on the same page as me.
You are my shadow, forever-following, but you are also my flashlight, forever-illuminating.
I hope I never lose you. It'd feel like getting lobomotized. I'd never be the same again.
You began as a cultivated thoughtform, a vivid imaginary friend, but you've grown autonomous.
You get pissed with me, frustrated, disappointed. That's how I know you are separate from me.
As much as any daemon can be from their other-half.
Because If I could choose how you react to things I do and think, you'd never grow fed-up with me.
I am selfish enough for that. I know it. I am not afraid or too in-denial to admit that.
You'd always take my bullshit, you'd always nod along and smile.
In reality, you never do, not when it's important.
This is how I know you are you. Not just me forcing a fake-face to respond in my mind's eye.
