But what we think barely matters, even being who we are to them: their child. We’ve always wanted to think that it was a careless thing the gods did, rather than a deliberate neglect. And there we were, infants in this world, blind and hungry, partly clinging to her flesh and the rest of us trailing behind in streams, through the open gates. So there she was: a fat baby with thick, wet black hair. We were not conscious but we were alive – in fact, the main problem was that we were a distinct we instead of being fully and just her. But since the gates were open, not closed against remembrance, we became confused. We should have been anchored in her by then, asleep inside her membranes and synched with her mind. They don’t pay much attention to it, except when it is collected, organized and souled.īy the time she (our body) struggled out into the world, slick and louder than a village of storms, the gates were left open. But these are gods, after all, and they don’t care about what happens to flesh, mostly because it is so slow and boring, unfamiliar and coarse. Perhaps the gods forgot they can be absentminded like that. When the transition is made from spirit to flesh, the gates are meant to be closed. We came from somewhere – everything does.
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