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there is a lacewing stuck in my window. how often i’ve wanted to feel stuck between two panes of glass so i was not left with too much freedom, left with no sense of direction because there was so much around me. i worry at times that i have left myself behind, that the greatest iteration of myself was some day in the past, or maybe not the greatest but the truest, that i am past my prime, that i am not old or dying but just getting further from my self. though, i wonder, at what point am i an apotheosis to myself, at what point do i hover about the rest of me. 

i have memories this is true, and maybe the only things that are remembered are the truth. i mean that the truth does not include the past, not at all. not the truth only includes the present, not even what is to come because the future is so unpredictable that we could never really guess it right all the time and they are really guesses. but i mean to say that the past is not true at all unless it is remembered, in which case it is there as it is, a memory and only a memory. i don’t mean to say that the past didn’t happen, i just mean that the past doesn’t exist, much like the dead are not alive. i mean to say that the words i am writing remain as they are, as long as they remain, but if i were to erase them, or they were to be lost, then they would cease as words and only remain in my mind and the minds of those who have read this, in which case that is the purest or most existed form of this writing. and when i die, so too will my body have been lost and yet i will remain in the minds of those who have met and seen and held me. and that will be the most that i will be, that will be my truth. and if i am forgotten by time, if i am no longer recorded or remain in any way, they at that point i cease to be true. to cease to exist is to cease being true, and i find it important to remain true for as long as i can, even after my death.  

i often conflate what is real with what is true, but i take a wider sense of what is real: i believe what we imagine is real, because when i shiver at the horror of being frozen to feathers (i mean frozen to death, but my computer autocorrected to feathers and i had to leave it there) i find that imagined idea so real that i am viscerally moved to shiver, and that shiver is real, and if i can remain real by what i write even beyond my life, then i take that as remaining real.