' with each death, i become ghostly, ghostlier. a mistranslation. ' seven cycles in. it feels like a death each and every time she comes back with five. a loss of self and she knows she is not who she once was. she isn't certain five even remembers who she used to be. the first incarnation, meant to die with the rest of the world and perhaps that girl fulfilled her purpose. the single thread in the grand design. she wonders if five remembers his truest self. what it was like to be without burden
what is the self if the self is ever-changing ? an echo of an echo, a memory of a memory worn through down to the center, picked apart and put back together wrong, then picked apart and put back together different – if he closed his eyes and let his mind wander, he can see it. the water on which he floats, carried by the current. the fire deep beneath the earth, heating, one degree at a time. and the self : adjusting , adjusting , adjusting. oh how many years before he looked up to see the water boiling where he lay ? how long until he could not remember what it was like not to burn on and on and on ?
he laughs. it’s not a happy sound. “you look pretty solid to me,” he says. his eyes flick from the near-empty bottle on the table to the worn threads of her jeans to her tired, burdened eyes. the grin flickers from his face a moment and beneath it : sorrow, grief. a black hole devoid of hope. his hand – always gloved – clamps against her arm, firm, eyes not looking away from hers for a moment. the intensity for which he is known does not abate as he leans close. “you,” he says, “are the most solid thing in this world right now. as far as i know. alright? you and me, em.”
@psychometrictm / ic asks / always accepting !!
