i am the lost ghost in your gently fading dreams that hesitantly leave you to greet the sun. woolgathering won’t change the trajectory of a life not lived; except in small dark spaces, between cracks and crevices that hide from light and life seeking itself. there remains the remnants of the not-you, the un-person who gave in to the illusions of existence contrived by the false-bringers.

they make us forget our oceans and ancient waters. they make us forget our drink, the ichor that turned us into Earth gods who then began feeding ichor to our children. the fluid was the milk, pouring from our veins into the vat of our once-life. the god in me sleeps. she sleeps in the place where Morpheus leads me each moonrise. i go to her with childlike questions because they are all i believe i have. she tells me i do not need her. she says i am twin seeking twin and that mirrors are all i need so i can see myself answering my un-questions. but all my mirrors are broken, the million pieces praying at my feet.
i return as ghost seeking life in familiar places. but i am shattered and bruised by the not-me, too afraid to materialize worlds from  my womb–materialize gods from my womb. the false-bringers stir my insides, concocting potions that invade remembering. there is no history, only the now living or dying on the inside. the potion wants the death of memory. the potion wants amnesia to inhabit my DNA so my remembering is erased and all that lives and remains is the un-self, the substance-less woolgathering that chains me to the contrived. but the dreams also show the other world, the place where the remembering hides from the potion.
do not weep for my forgetting. you have your own tears to shed, for your un-self. you are here, too, with me, sharing dirt and sky with my un-self. your mirror waits for you and your un-questions. ask them if you dare.