Would you believe me if I told you these wings won't make you fly?
Where am I? I have to know. Is it far away in some other lifetime? Am I existing somewhere else too? It would make sense, I believe. I feel these things are happening to me but nobody here is responsible. Experiences and lessons--new ideas form behind my facade but I can't discover where they have come from. They appear from nothing and give me no answers--seemingly sporadic yet tied to some archaic source. Existentialism doesn't even know where to start, and neither do I.

I feel her blink and my eyes shut for a second.
I feel her breath enter my chest and leave--I swear I didn't open my mouth.
I feel her claws grasp on a memory as she struggles
not to let it go--
but I don't know what she's thinking.
Her thoughts flicker and I can feel her emotion--
her reactions to what ever they told her that she'd forgotten.
I know she exists,
but I've never seen her before.
She walks down gravel paths,
kicking pebbles before they fall under her toes.
She likes the sun--
a little too much.
She reads from time to time..
I think she's smarter than me.
But I wouldn't know,
we've never met.
I know she knows I'm here.
I know she feels my pain
when the world fades back to black.
She whispers to me sometimes but her words get lost on the journey--
from thousands of worlds away.

We are one in the same--
her name is mine as well.
The name of millions of miles of separation,
but not a particle of difference.
Two souls born from the same star--
we split just once
and landed infinite planets apart.
Her world is not my own,
and yet I know her inside and out.
In the mirror every morning
her face looks me in the eye.
She sees my breasts when she undresses at night.

It is only our own memories--
the ones we've made since we fell from from the sky--
that wrench us apart and define us.
Memories of places the other would never recognise--
memories of people the other wouldn't know.
Memories of ourselves that don't match,
like we do.
We carve our own and in this we are inherently separate.
Two beings cut from the same stitch in time--
dispersed like sand scatters in a storm.
We exist in our entirety
exempt from the pain of knowing another
so similar.
We exist in different spaces--
allow time to pull apart two pieces
that once were intertwined.

....Spell-binding....

Creativity return--
Seep back into my fingers,
Run hot whispers up my veins;
Pull tendons into shapes--
Make them write your different names.

--My anchor in the deep keeps me still amongst the swells,
If the chain were to break--
I'd drift and sink below to hell...

There isn't a second in time that passes without thought. The mind is never still--if it were a person, we might call it a fidget. It's not, though. It's a wheel that rolls over continents in a day, circles the globe many times in a lifetime.
The mind is your weapon. Bare it with grace, nurture with care. Acknowledge that some will misuse it, make sure you aren't one of them. Don't be fooled by tricks of the imagination--your mind gets bored too, every once in a while.

Every once, in a while.