You are different. You
are old and new. The other eggs are new. You are new, and yet you are old.
The words that rouse me are in my head, but I know they are
not my words.
My eyes open to a blur of dancing shadows. I can feel a
membrane surrounding me, tucking my limbs tightly into my belly and chest.
Inside the membrane, I seem to float across a landscape of pebbles and sands.
A dark marble of fish cruises between me and the landscape.
Sparkles of brightness and dimness weave across the sands and pebbles in
patterns.
I know you. I do not
remember you. The others – I do not know them, nor do I remember them. You – I
know.
Something stabs at my back. The pain jerks me away from the
mesmer of patterns, which in turn are disrupted by my reaction. The fish darts
out of my view with a flick of its tail.
I shall not aid the
other eggs. They are new. I do not know them. I shall not aid them. I know you,
yet I do not remember you. You must remember you. I cannot aid you if you
cannot remember you.
I must remember me. Which means there is a 'me' to remember.
Which means I must have memories.
It is too much. I close my eyes against the sands and the
stones and the memory of the marbled fish, and I float.
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