The younger me convinced myself that I was able to fly. I still have memories of flying, its hard to to keep telling myself they are attempts at deception by my younger persona. They're so real but I also know these memories were deviously crafted to appear so real. Meticulous and careful work and with such intent, with such foresight in knowing future years and knowledge would rob myself of the illusion I could fly. So detailed, I still remember the touch of rain before it falls , the droplets trembeled as they clung precarioulsy to the clouds, a million tiny gleaming baubles in a world suspended. But of course, I don't remember this. Its not really a memory. Yet at the same time, all memorys are patchworks, part reality but mostly infused by our own desires, diluted by ourselves marred by our own perception, seperated from the past. This is what I tend to write like. I write in the same way I remember, reality obsucred by my thoughts about myself and the world, disjointed, fragmented, with an aim to deceiving the future me, no this is really what happened, with conviction and intent, threaded with seeds that make the non-existent eisxt, leaps from conception to reality.