I have been witness. There are things that can never be spoken; a baby's first breath, an angel's first tear, a mind's first thought. Yet even these things are not comparative to what I have seen in the first moment of my existence. From the moment I opened my eyes, I knew what I was supposed to do - so why did I find myself unable to move when I saw that darkness? There are things even light cannot comprehend, and it was there, in the utter desolation, that movement I dread, there was the thing I loved the most. It was I, but it was not myself. It was like me and yet I did not recognize it.
I found myself struggling to form words I did not contain, but I somehow knew existed. I wanted to carve what my eyes had seen into the very panels of the fabric of time until my fingers bled, and still I fear it would not be enough. I can never understand this movement. So why am I so drawn to it? These shapes, colors, sounds, scents, dimensions - I recognize none of these and yet I am captivated by it's tiny movements as this fantasy begins to take its first steps.
What nature of beautiful monstrosity is this? I want to know. I know that I know nothing of this thing, only that it cannot be known. But IT. KNOWS. ME. It knows me. It says my name in a language I do not understand. It compels me. I am desperate to hear more of this voice that I so dread, but I only ever hear it when I dream. When my eyes are open it is nothing but the endless torture of movement. Movement above me, that I see in silence as this awful construction begins its journey into what i can only imagine is forever.