This moment has the weight of a breast, hanging full in the night like a moon on its own and in its own, nude and pale. It drops like a sack on my consciousness, and I feel it all at once: what I had been escaping by lightness and frivolousness, and I want to crumble, because I feel impotent in its presence. I attempted to escape out of lack of mobility, because there is no way to confront this except by acceptance, and I am not ready for that yet.

I am standing in front of its tide, and I'm crying, because I know it is true, and I can already feel it starting to drip on my skin. And I can turn around and run, I can assimilate lightness until I am again taken aback by the weight of that breast, or I can be still, I can submit to this conscious drowning by opening my throat and swallowing, in memory, to see if I can remember the way back, if the nascence still exists in my coma.

I want to find that shining origin, its glowing atomic orb, to understand what drove me into hiding in the beginning, to examine the fear the way it was before it consumed me with paralysis. I want to feel its unhibited pain in order for it to elapse.