My body has been shaken with a strange grief that feels like it was sent from the future. When I try and think about you and what you are feeling, I get a lump in my chest and I am pulled back into my heart. I imagine that our blood, thicker than oceans, connects us through a telepathic thread. It is tethered through the skin of the earth, reaching for you, in some desert facility. Pranging at your heart strings, begging you to stay in reality.
My brother.
I know it's hard here, nothing makes sense here, it's rough here, it doesn't always feel good for people like us. Like sandpaper on skin. You are built from air and water, hovering above the ground with your mind in several dimensions at once, having multiple ephiphanes.
I prayed and prayed for you, before I even really knew how to pray- and you arrived backwards, purple, almost choked by an umbilical noose. You had a scar on your forehead that looked like Harry Potter. You were family to me in a way my parents were not, in the mischievous gleam in your eye and your ability to scathe through life unprogrammed by the multitude of societal expectations beaten into our heads. You were badly behaved because you were above duality. You were cheeky and naughty and bright and full of life, so much so that it seemed to ring out of you like extraterrestrial songs. You gulped in pain to avoid making anyone else taste it. You are family to me in a way that is primordial, before families, even. You are a faction of my soul. I want to pin your feet to the earth and scream louder than your demons. I want to take you to a jungle and extract your poison. I want to be 9 years old again and be a better sister. I want to protect yourself from the part of yourself that you are running from.
I called you into this plane and I’ll be so fucking mad if you leave before me.
We have work to do.