in the start he wasn’t even a cell, a horrifyingly uncomfortable speckle on the iris of his mother’s eye. not even one singular cell, anything physical or even entirely mental - an idea, a name, a passing fancy that wouldn’t last one week to the next. his mother had always been the flighty type who wouldn’t settle to one path or the other until she was sure she could explore all the other ways in which the road traveled. which was fine, was excellent, because he’d never been so certain of anything as he had been that he didn’t want to be her child.
in the start he was a sperm, an egg, a worm to a bird or even less than that, something intangibly small and unbearably difficult to achieve. it took him three years to show even the barest hint of wanting to be, and this would inevitably shape him as a person more than any outside influence could have possibly tried to do. he was a song in the background, a flicker of wind that sent a candle’s flame going mad with its dancing and neverending struggle to stay alive.
in the start he was a tangle of limbs, a mesh of mouths, a collection of spit and semen and sweat that pooled into his parents’ consciousnesses and would never drip away, would never dry out or evaporate despite the passage of time. he had never been more like himself as he was when he and all his potential genetic matter was dripping from between his mother’s thighs as she screamed at his father. he was once a cell. singular. alone. unwarranted and without apology.
in the start is where he would like to be now - so that he might keep himself in such a manner.