refraction #2

Premise: Tears of the God 2026 Cohort, reflecting on Rosemary and Anemone

This week I have thought about dying, disappearing, decaying, sinking, and shapeshifting all at once. I have thought about the soil, the grip of the mountain, and the rising sun. I’ve thought about falling backwards and forwards; in the ocean or the meadows; in the summer, spring, winter, and fall. I have thought about the color of the sky, and the shape of my hands and skin in cotton and lace. I have thought about my blood — how it breathes, and vibrates, and tells me stories about myself. How it coagulates and flows. How it warms, and rushes, and scrunches up near the flame of a candle. I think about my tendons, and muscles, and bones. How my cartilage shifts and breaks and cries without permission. I think about how my body grieves the expansive miasma of itself: does it contemplate mortality or the meaning of stars or the way silk feels or what its means to kiss, hold hands, and be in love, if at all? Can my fingers eat themselves if they thought to? I have thought, now, about the sentience of our cells. If they build societies and machines of if they fade in and out of existence like plasma and supernovas. I have thought about the universe holding my hand for a walk or giving me the plague because it can. It has not obligation or desire to do either. I have thought about sitting on the train. I have thought about the station, and where all the people are.