Sometimes I stop here — sometimes purposefully, sometimes reminded by signing in with wordpress to comment elsewhere, sometimes who knows why — and I am visited by ghosts of myself. I remember this feral voice, its breaking wild, and the time in-between of congealing into me, now, whom I am so much proud and relieved and excited and empowered and grounded and exhausted to be, and I yearn to write and I know my voice is not this voice anymore, I leave this place alone to honor this time, and yet I miss it, I attend its reincarnation in this strengthening body, and attention is prayer, I pray for my new voice. It is slow going. I miss the speed and passion and ferocity, even witnessing the fragmentation, the lack of memory, the haze. I am practicing voice out loud. And I am coming home to writing soon. I am grateful I left maps of this territory, the territory itself, it will have changed as I enter it again, and I will have too.