Even as I wonder how to begin, it is already here.
My name is lilli. Sometimes. You can choose to believe so, or not, as you will.
I am trying to be a writer. That is, I was once upon a time something very much like a writer, but somehow, I fell.
Now every word takes an eon to carve, reshaped from the static, plucked from the razor wire that confines my every dream.
But that is not the end of the story. It’s just a spot on a map, a means of tracing a jagged line from the past into the beyond with a feather dipped in stardust, memory, illusion and blood.
Is it bravery or stupidity or even just necessity that makes me leave almost everything behind and seek out on my own for what was lost? Leaving behind those I called my friends, even casting off my own name? It is no small thing to give one’s self a new name, no matter how pretentious that may sound, and I liked my own name. Sometimes, at least.
So I have travelled long paths and short through worlds, and beyond, and nostalgia breeds loneliness and loneliness wraps itself in nostalgia. There is a beauty to that feeling of loss though, although the reason itself might be shrouding nothing but dreams, a longing for worlds and people-creatures who never existed. Cast out from another world, I find myself again, here in the world in-between. Yes, here I am, kneeling once more by the quiet pool. Its opaque waters mirror the sunset: gold and magenta melting into violet and cobalt. At my back, tall trees whisper ancient things; their indigo trunks, skeleton-thin, huddle over their reflection in the pond, a familial portrait in which I do not yet appear. Over our heads, crowning their silvered leaves, stars. The scent of eucalyptus searing in summer heat and summer rain seeps into every breath. Though the light has changed, maybe because I have changed, I recognise this place.
I feel the sense of something waiting, not beside me, but near.