Becoming
I’m not there yet but I can feel the energy mounting the earth shivers, our bones hum with a distant noise, the history of our lives folding, breaking open, spilling their secrets to the wind. I hear it. The low, throaty laughter of every story. The unbinding. The call to scatter like ashes, to let go, to become nothing and everything at once. But I stay. Not caged, no longer bound yet tied by something deeper, older, a tether wound tight around the marrow of me. I linger like a craving stubborn, like a gnarled old tree, weathered by the thousand cuts of storms that have come and gone, roots tangled in the soil’s oldest whispers. I am no longer the prey. I am the hunt. I’ve always been wild, a thing of claw and howl, the moon’s sharp edge against the sky. And still, I crave rest, But there is no sleep for the marked, no peace for the watchers at the brink. So I act on ritual this ghostly remembrance under flickering light, a sacrament carved from habit, from silence, from the scent of iron and porcelain. I press my palms against the cold walls of my past, recite my own name like a spell until the echoes answer. The edges of existence crack open, and I slip through, not fading, not dissolving, but standing firm, a sigil etched in flesh. Not becoming, but here. Alive. Undeniable.