When once the trees were dressed they now lay bare as my countless bones, mouldering beneath. I have always existed.

You call us Spirits. Gods.

The terms are accurate enough

I see the seasons, days, years, hours, always, all at once.

I love the faces I have loved as though drinking from an ocean,

feel my loneliness and anguishes endlessly, endlessly, like wounds in my flesh. Wounds on my heart. To reach out and hold a hand is to reach out touch it’s bones and watch them crumble to dust,

turned to mud by tears that have cried after Death countless, countless times and yet.

You look into my eyes and cannot read me.

I did not always look like this. The hot, thick waters of my birth harboured life infinitesimal.

Tiny, reaching, desperate, failing.

Such a small experiment. Such potential.

live and die immortal. A new life. Again. A new life

Unthethered.

Float,

A failed experiment.

A new attempt.

Untethered.

Float.

The vicious little existences in murky, viscous puddles, deep, gloomy depths.

Barely recognisable as life. Striving still. Thriving still.

Amassing their energy, surviving still, survive. An upwelling, a vent. A home, a new life.

A new shape. Legs now. Limbs. Such creativity.

Elongating and adapting, dying, fighting.

Life is struggle, life is pain, life is one more step, one more meal, one more oasis.

Life is always struggle. There is no rest. Dying again, unsustainable, a new shape, a new life. Endlessly.

Endlessly.

I can only know what they know. Can only see the next mouthful.

The swamp of living is fetid. It’s tedious. I envy true death, the release of darkness.

A new life. Unsustainable. Life and death are monotonous. A new shape.

The heavy dark fetid waters are gone.

The endless changing of my body leaves it alien.

My life is fed by the toil of those around me, I do not even need to fight for my survival.

They fail again, a new life

With intelligence comes fun.

A revolutionary invention of the mind, an adaptation unexpected. I remember discovering fun.

My life is fed by the survival of the creatures I represent

I become a creature of pleasure.

Exhausted by life immortal and only still foetal

Still so much life left to face, so much to dread.

The pleasure of eating such a tedious joy,

Fun.

Give me fun. Give me mischief, cruel mischief. Give me mania, give me intoxication.

I’m a wild thing.

Shape irrelevant I have discovered fun. The world shall suffer my endless frustrations.

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Life bursts and fizzles, each piece of it so inconsequential. They hunt to survive.

I hunt to thrive.

I subsist, subside. Subsist, subside on the ebb and overflow of life, of energy.

I thrive on chaos

Angry to exist, tired, bored. The creatures that create me so chaotic even without me.

Let me die or give me more.

Nothing satiates. Never any need but the endless need to satiate.

Cruelty settles in my ever-changing eyes, fury.

I remember discovering love.

I no longer remember the shape of my first love, the shape of my first body to feel love.

I remember it, and it’s core has never changed.

It softened the fury, but did not absolve me of it.

With love comes grief.

The upwelling of geysers of natural, innate, instinctive, emotive love is always met in turn with the bottomless hole of grief.

Of loss. The absolute finality of death.

With rage. At the banality, the pointlessness, the hopelessness of love.

If the loves I have lost have found their other loves after death I have not been there.

I’m here. Always and endlessly.

Love was given like a poison, like a drug.

It revolutionised my existence. It changed my entire concept of fun.

It gave my shapes meaning, it gave me my first warm memories.

It gave me segments of time that meant something.

Give me love

I have had a million lovers, and countless children.

Love, like fun, followed me through bodies innumerable.

A revolutionary invention of the mind. An adaptation unexpected.

I remember needing love.

Needed it so as to not lose my mind entire

To not simply lay down somewhere and let the centuries pass me by.

I needed love.

Love is a drug. Every high has an equal low.

I have begged Death to take me too.

I loathe Death and his complete disregard for my endlessness. His greedy hoard of my countless loves.

His selfish, relentless campaign of unjust fairness that forgets me.

Forgotten always.

Still here. Always and endlessly.

But,

I remember becoming human.

A life force so stable I’ve not changed bodies since,

Although my body has changed as you all have changed.

I did not always look like this

Agender in the age of Cistercians

Humans are creatures of chaos. Creatures of love.

Humans are creatures of drama, of intensity, consequence, passion.

They embodied my cruelty. My frustrations. My neediness. My desperation.

They love with such complexity.

I thrived.

Finally, creatures who could recognise their Gods.

And fear us, and revile us, and exile us.

The cruelty of humans outlasted even my own

I watched their journey

I joined your march

I am so tired of cruelty.

How can I love with such depth and also take life as though it has not known the same love?

How can I grieve my murdered lovers and children and murder other’s lover’s and children?

I am so tired.

I know many like me. Lost souls like me. Out there alone like me.

Sick of living like me

We are accidental life

A by-product of life

We are the forgotten ones

We are the expendable energy that mistakenly took form

And so, we’re still here. Always and endlessly.