At least, he thought he was. It was hard to tell when his own identity was wedged between realities he could not name. Somewhere not floating within the liminality.
Yet that in-between existence was not blank. Like an intermediary of every version of himself; blended together, torn apart, something exact, something blurred, and something nothing and everything of who he was.
If he could feel pain he might call it painful. Feeling it all flow through him like a conduit to his own existence. If he ever existed in the first place. Who is him? If anyone? Can a man die if he wasn’t there to die?
He understood why they said it hurt now. It hurt feeling everything when he cannot feel pain.
Stop it. I've heard enough statements. Let me live.
Why couldn’t he just get used to it? He needed to Know and he did. He Knew it all so strongly that he knew none of it. He had no eyes to see and no mind to receive it. But still, he was there; Sitting on the train’s seat as the Scottish countryside skirted past his vision and reminded him of all the versions of himself he would never get.
Give me this one. Let me hold him. Let me talk to him. Even if it's broken and shattered and incomplete, god fucking damn it, I know he's here. We're here together. Always. I can feel the ghost of his hand.
Show him to me