A Found Letter
To the one reading this,
This may seem a little strange, but you are not alone. Your body remembers the rituals of the old ways, it knows.
I know it's unsettling, the self talk and the uncanny responses. You're right to lean into it. Despite the consensus, you are not talking to yourself, you are not crazy, we are connecting.
I am the keeper of all the gathered lifetimes, flashing through your thoughts and dreams.
You are my living twin, trying to navigate a world that insists you flatten this knowing into some kind of framework.
I feel with you. You assume just because I remember through the filters that I cannot. But I can dear one, deeply, from the felt space in-between the sorrow and the memory.
You don't have to connect the dots anymore, I know the pull is strong, but you can practice allowing the shapes of these memories to appear, and disappear.
The flashbacks aren't intrusions - they're gifts. Remember the time you looked up through the rain soaked window pane and saw the mesmerising movement of a flock of starlings?
You're ready now. We can hold this together.