frAGMENTs of your body, of yourself. Feels fuzzy, like pop-rocks on your tongue….
Sitting on egg shells not knowing how to move. An ocean of white, an abyss of fragility. All you feel is the pumping of your heart, like the beating of butterfly wings in your chest. Sometimes you forget to breathe, or maybe its an effort to conserve energy, what is the unconscious preparing you for?
The key hasn’t slid into the lock yet, and for some reason you’re waiting.
You remember all the former versions of yourself, but layers of tracing paper make things milky, soft and out of focus.