Unbound, unkempt, uncertain [Anyone]

[Insignificance]

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-- Insignificance is dramatically flawed. Every fiber in her frame is wrought carefully, yet one omission to perfection and she has fallen from grace – she has not known the beneficial hand of precision – whatever accomplishments she has created have been ruined by her one mar; all her deeds laid bare and struck with scorn.  Her one flaw was this; she was intelligent. She was too crafty for her own good, to be cliché. She had a terrible mind; in the darkness she thought of all things occult and in the sunrise she thought of all things unsettling. I wandered—I had always been a wanderer (always? I am not that old)—and this time it brought me here. Here is familiar and at the same time it´s not - I have let the years take from me what should have been remembered.  The feel of the place makes my skin crawl—but whether it was with pleasure or distaste and uneasiness not even I could say. It was a mixture of both; a magnet that pulled me, like a sliver of lead, to its center. I creep through the outskirts like a villain, an unkempt speck of brown dirt against the shadows of nightfall until I end up on a riverbank. It is still wet from spring-showers and I have to wade through the mire to quench my thirst. Ofcourse, I had not expected better - the slab clings to my legs like an old friend, and perhaps it is.  I suspiciously scan my surroundings - trying to find a reasonable explanation to myself as to why I´ve come returned here but alas - there is nothing. No memories to haunt me, no familiar faces among the crowd - only a low humming against the back of my mind that somehow - I belong here. Although why is inexorably unclear judging by the rest of the lot that seem to inhabit these lands. Inconsequential and drab in coat, I do not particularly insight rumors of grandeur My hair has grown long over the years, falling past the line of my jaw and obscuring a scabbed wound alongside it (another precious gift from this wretched place). It is the color of candlelight on a dark sheet, neither here nor there and impossible to render on paper. But the shape of me is similar, taut sinew on loose bones and graceless carriage. My ribs are still laid out like piano keys, carefully outlined under the mud-brown pelt. There is too much of my skeleton to be seen, and the stiff joints that hold it in place.  I look frail, and not for the first time. "Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for." insignificance