Once I read a work of fiction. Someone penned it from their imagination, much like some of the greatest love stories ever told. It gave words to someone who never existed but inside of the mind of someone who may have known me better than I’ve ever known myself.

It spoke to me in ways that no other being could bear to. It was like a thousand people with the same sickness were saying they understood my language, one that didn’t really exist. But it was never real, and it left me just like everything else.

When the Tower of Babel was built and all of the self-righteous stopped understanding each other, my language was buried beneath the pile of rubble it all became. 
Still, I speak it. I speak it so frequently and am filled with regret. Regret that I don’t understand my own language, regret that it is a fairy tale existing merely because I have not let it go.

 I have been shown this art,


and time


and have failed to understand. My hands, once careful sculptors, shake with uncertainty in every move I make. I often wonder how many works of fiction it would take to steady them. 

I have been told that life is a series of moments, 
but they’re tangled like thread that is about to snap and leave me with a mess of 
that never turned into anything
at all. 

My language is dying

and I am fading

like the ashes of Babel.

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