It's such a contradiction, what I am on the inside and what I show the world.

I am made of art. I can't exist in the real world. I dissolve.

Have I ever been real? Life is so immaterial, so untouchable. I don't feel solid anymore.

So alone, always looking for another soul I recognize and identify with. What would it be like to find that?

I miss the sound of the rain on my window, the smell of the earth at night. Home.

I know nothing lasts, but then I live it and it's suddenly real and unbearable.

At times I feel like my father, like I am this copy of him in the world.

Did he know he was beloved?

Maybe I think I'll see him one day and show him this grief as proof that I didn't forget, that our bond is deeper than death. But I'll never see him. He'll never know.

Were we ever real?

Who will mourn him if not me? Who will keep him alive?

I don't write memories. I write the devastation of knowing that memories are all I have left.

What's important is to hold on to yourself.

I am not this person on the outside that the world sees. I am not real. I am something else entirely that I cannot name. I am both made of language and beyond language.

The days go by and take my life with them.

But this is your life, these moments and long stretches of nothingness. How little of it matters and yet all of it matters.

More loss than I can bear. How to make a home in loss? How to endure it? How to forgive yourself for forgetting and overlooking and losing it all?

No time. I need more time. A machine that creates time.

How to accept your own vulnerability? How to make peace with all that is beyond your control, all that could disfigure and end your life, the fate and chance that change everything in a moment?

We live and die in mystery.