I travelled at night so as to not be followed. I did not worry about covering my footsteps. My selves disperse and trail off in different directions until they die out. None of them are me. The person you know as me is fleeting. Something must be surviving. These words are true the instant I say them and only then. I feel no continuity, no binding shape, no dogma, no logos, no anchoring core that drives me on.

I hear my heart beating. This is what I know, for certain, of existence. Everything else is fabricated. I chose preferences by what comes easiest, but I cannot feel, cannot explain why I am making the choices, what it "means" to me. I remember thinking that I was a liar, an infidel, becuase I could adapt to anything, because I was characterless and anonymous, but this is not true. I had no truth to be in violation of, to call myself a liar in reference to. There was no tragedy. I became what I acted on and there was nothing else. When the curtains were drawn back, there was an empty stage. I had no play to act out, no lines to defend. This was zen. I was not Self Conscious yet.

This was infancy. This nihilism, this forced construction of identity, this optimism, because to declare Nothing is to declare the possibility of Everything.

There was No Other.

I recalled, as a child, when you told me what it felt like to be in love with me when I was fourteen.

"It is like being blown up, and then searching the battlefield and finding joy in collecting all the pieces, in being put back together again."

I loved when you told me that.

But what now did I have to offer to explosion? What is not contained cannot pop open, there is only static.

At some point in the night, I must have materialized, because the darkness faded.

This is called: Dawn. This is my name.