This is an opening. An invitation. An awakening.
A reminder that the difference between past and future is but a mere tilt of the head, and that both are fantasies, of a kind — nothing more than constructions and reconstructions and dreams.
We reject the idea of make-believe because it seems indistinct, because we want to believe that the known is more than just a reckoning, because the idea of all that we hold dear dissolving is too much for us to bear.
And yet —hold yourself, dear one.
We are but mirrors.

What I see in you is all that I can and will be, emanating. It is in Otherness, paradoxically, that we find connection; the joy of recognition chest-to-chest with the door slam of rejection. What both say is that I see you, deeply and unflinchingly; that apathy and indifference are not enough for us — not an option, even.
I can’t explain how I feel when I write; how I can be sitting on the sofa or walking along, just going about my day, and believe with …
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