I stayed quiet for a long time. I always wanted to become infinite. Still, I held my breath. Still, it did not feel like home. I escaped into myself, growing inwards, but far from imploding. I sank.
I convinced myself solitude was necessary, healing, purifying. I kept myself occupied learning, only sneaking out to test my knowledge, to bounce off ideas of something more than the walls of my skull. I became an expert in all things human but I forgot how to live.
I did not know how to engage any of my new abilities born in the dark. I was scared and worthless under the sun. I was reborn with my skin tender and blooded, fearing and craving another human to hold me tightly. I could only wait.
The pain started to pay off. My little interactions intensified. Conversations became unhinged. I felt free. I cleansed myself of the social rules and expectations and started relying on empathy; I refined my sensitivity and trusted my instincts. Everything I believed was wrong because I was said so turned to my advantage.
I wasn’t sure where this new sense of self would take me, so I decided to pull the oars back in and float down the river. I would lie down and look at the sky: the world slowly gliding past me, the water murmuring into my ears, the idea of a waterfall expanding in my mind. Would I be ready? I asked myself.
Then, I fought the impulse to veer towards the bank of the river to gain more time, to feel ready. I closed my eyes and sighed, reassuring myself that sometimes, in this life, doing nothing takes you closer to where you want to be. Patience is the virtue of the dead; I learned it during those still hours of the night; when everything was lost and I did not have a name.
