The Return - Part One

Remembering the future and the past in entirety new ways.

I am all the parts of this dirty engine.

Leaking dark liquid over us both.

The mirror is black and contains all the things we said we become.

I am sore and hopeful. Alone and beautiful.

There's not much that surprises us or anyone, anymore.

We are all the broken parts of engines to unknown machines, waiting to be rebuilt. Awaiting travel to new destinations.

Transformed.

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Hello,

We need to fragment before taking on new shapes. I seem to remember at the age of nineteen, feeling as if I was a million pieces of someone new. Clanging and clanking against all the possibilities, internal scratches on the meat and bone of being.

I am starting to remember how I do this. We live so long, that we can forget the processes that once worked. We can forget how to build seaworthy vessels, and dive headlong into the dark cold water, and expect to make it from this country to the next. This is why we drown.

We forget.

We simply forget how to swim.

What a thing it is to remember who we are.

Leaving

When you read this, I will be somewhere within the return. The vital final action in a ritual that has lasted a number of years (If you decide to include the Charles Dexter Ward nature of investigating a strange new society, set in the middle of Dartmouth, that takes people into haunted forests and leaves them there to see if they survive the haunting).