You move the meat about so much you come to believe it's you, these bundled muscles and sloshing guts. Or you think somehow these storms that bear your voice are separate from matter, spirits waiting to be free, ghosts for every habit. You fly that flag that most comforts, you fly the flag that fits. Each of us a nation of symbiosis and happenstance, a million separate actions every second we call ourselves. Each of us a teeming conspiracy of boundless time and mortal stresses, believing we are the epitome of existence. Every mirror holding the face of creation.
I watch as the infection seeds my flesh with future scars. I watch as the illness slowly consumes this muddle I call my mind. The sizzle of the skillet, the static of the signal overwhelmed. Each moment a slow boil, the spark and scuff of wrecked synapse and clotted thought. A few bones, some blood, countless bacter. The dull clabber of culture congealing in all this useless tissue and want. Most of my needs and wishes well with-in the curve typical to my species, gender, and geopolitical distribution. The few outliers the signal decay inherent in the chemistry. The singular expression of a failed species that thinks it is winning.
You watch as the sky darkens, you sit as the plate is filled. The words come well after all the wanting, the reasons tacked on well after you commit your crimes. The stories pour forth, a thing of seething blood and ritual insistence. You cross your heart and hope to die, swearing on whatever truth suits you. Wounds will open, wounds will weep. Mostly it will heal or it will kill you, accounting for the creep of accumulated distortion and various notions of entropy. All the songs of breath and birth, the deliberate echo of every antecedent walking inside your frame, time and continuity the litany of the lives you share in your trembling frame. We sing out the praises of the incalculable ancients in each incarnation of our dumb existence. Our most enduring legacy the viscosity of tears.