I was alive once before a long time ago not yet happened. Memory serves no man, but especially a man who went to sleep only to wake as a small boy, not even sleeping but standing alone in a world that knew him not. At the very least, I knew that there were some things about which I could never know, about which I could never speak. Fearless, however, would be the best way to describe this person with whom I am unwittingly tied. Sometimes the limitations of language limit the mind. Even still, I wake; I search, but sometimes I wake and forget. I forget the essence of myself, the thing that makes me me, but what could that ever really be? What does it mean to be me, if the me in me can never be unless I know who it is to be me while unaware or unable to be that me in me as the torment of being dragged through every place at a rapid pace strips me of the I that I cannot know as the I of me.
Why any of it matters matters if I tell the truth, but the truth is something that I cannot share. Like she who is the liar, the only truth is that she lies. I too live the lies, the stories told by those who think they understand.
I do not disappear.
We do not disappear.
Whether or not an observer or a person within my immediate presence can or cannot see me exists beyond my control. Thus, the understanding about who I am collapses, and to the minds that cannot comprehend of such an existence, I disappear, sometimes only for a moment, usually, however, for forever. And now, the ambiguous disambiguates, or does it?
It can’t, obviously, apparently, circumstantially; the ambiguous must remain as such to the observer or else, the story lacks its essence. And then the question becomes something else entirely, but what that question is, only I can ever know.