Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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I cannot breathe.  

I remember what it was like - no, that’s a lie, or if I remembered, the memory has now gone from me.  I believe in breathing - I have a concept of it, I feel that I knew once what it was.  Rhythmic, regular, a core part of living - but also peripheral.  Something that you don’t notice until you have to focus on it.  

A core part of living.

If I’m not breathing now, then...

Did I live?  I must have.  Again, it is more a concept than a memory.  But I must have lived.  I think, I am thinking now, I am aware now.  

I am a thinking self.  This implies that I lived.  I have words - barely, I catch them out of the aether like …


flies.  I catch words like flies, snatching at them.  It works better when I don’t think about it.  Like breathing.

I want to live.  


I have to take a breath.

If I want to live, I have to take a breath.

Do it.  Don’t think.  Do.  Use your will.  Focus.  Live.  Draw breath.  Do it.  Breathe breathe exhale inhale, like that, that’s how it works, just inhale, just inhale, just breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe...


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