Alone.
That was what she was, more than anything, in this new life. No one really warns you about that part: the loneliness. It isn't a matter of presence or connection, something that can be relieved through words or touch. The loneliness is inherent, constant, bone-deep; it is the reality of words like individual and independent, it is the truth of existence as a being of thought.
Anathema was not quite a being of thought just yet, but the roots of what she might one day become were already forming. It was this concept of loneliness she formed herself around, like settling into a mold; with each moment the world pushed and pulled, and the essence of her caved and stretched and twisted to accommodate. To live was to be alone, and to withstand the ever-crashing waves of existence was to save herself.
That was what she was, more than anything, in this new life. No one really warns you about that part: the loneliness. It isn't a matter of presence or connection, something that can be relieved through words or touch. The loneliness is inherent, constant, bone-deep; it is the reality of words like individual and independent, it is the truth of existence as a being of thought.
Anathema was not quite a being of thought just yet, but the roots of what she might one day become were already forming. It was this concept of loneliness she formed herself around, like settling into a mold; with each moment the world pushed and pulled, and the essence of her caved and stretched and twisted to accommodate. To live was to be alone, and to withstand the ever-crashing waves of existence was to save herself.
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