Behind me, memories rush round in cycles, fighting for my attention. Everything that has carried me up until this point working hard to stay in existence, buzzing with an electricity that lingers in me even now, forming what I have become. In front of me, a fog. Speeding towards me, unstoppable but mysterious, forcing me to grab it and fill it with substance, before throwing it behind me to join the chaos. I am at the centre. A miniscule gatekeeper between what will be and what was.
But I have no choice.
In order to endure I must follow the flow of continuation that exists outside of me. I must remain in existence long enough for new parts of myself to emerge. I am forced to exist in accordance with the will of duration, for without it, I am nothing; the moments of my life form me while I form them.
