We are born we grow and we die.
We live, we experience and we learn.
We are born alive, experience happens and we change.
Is that change metamorphosis, an addition, or a redirection?
Our spark begins at conception and we follow the deterministic path. Is deviation from the path, change or development or an enhancement?
If my brain was supposed to develop thus and because of experience it went here and not there and here was worse...is that a change or an addition or redirection? Am I better for it? Am I, I? Still? Wasn't I supposed to be there? Not here. What am I doing in here with this brain, with this sadness and loss when I was supposed to be there, with that brain and that life.
Did I die,
Which one am I?
Am I in a second? A once, hardly, used, one careful owner with careless parents, brain? Or do I hold the original plans still, the map of where I should have gone?
Is that the sadness and the loss? Can I see home on my map but know I'll never reach it? Or can I track back my steps down every wrong turn to find the original path?
It was so long ago and I can no longer see the detail on the map. Miles of dark country lie behind me, I can't go there again, again.
What if I cut across? Head across the fields and hedges of new lands and meet myself. I'll recognize my path, surely. I'll cut across and find my path. I'll catch myself up,
Could we fit back together? Him and me. I could forget everything and remember his stuff instead.
New for old. We could be friends, if he likes me.
What's that I can hear?
I'm on the high hill and the dark lands lie behind. Stopping here for a while I can hear my guardian angel again. She danced for me once when I was a child, at the end of my bed. Then she was a fairy, now she carries a spear that I cannot see. She dips it through my chest, it strangles my heart and throat with appalling love and she shows me the end, where I should be.
The burning brilliance of the land ahead, aching choking, but then it fades, leaving a cathartic mellowness behind. Like still warm embers glowing stained purple on my retina I see the signs ahead.
Many meandering miles later, I recognize a sign for what it is. A sudden gust from some flapping flushes the warm embers alive.
And there on my knees the sign glows bright and it reads.
"The universe is conspiring to help you!"
I'm older now. And have made a beautiful thing. But is it time to head out again and maybe catch him up?