Always with the birthing.

Someone said we rebirth ourselves every ten years.

Except maybe this birth is really the first one, and we never were anything more than a swollen and unwieldy amalgamation.

We know this now, and maybe we always have, but it's been so subtle, this waking up, this gradual unmooring, our identity previously wrapped up in constructs that have all begun to deconstruct, decaying beneath us and now our perch once so solid, is dropping foot by shuddering foot into the blank fog below.

Along with the thing that we previously thought of as us.

What now?

Transient