I forgot the divinity. The sweet curls of life that bends from my mouth in the cold. The story I tell myself reflects the fear, the lost will and every day takes me further from the quiet point of peace. Bring it back, bring back the soft science of morning and the vibrations that paint pictures on the coarse canvas of my mind. Even the deities were forgotten, their voices faint on their images, cloth hangings that move with drafts of air. I recall their golden light and how I tucked myself under arms and in bellies to travel to ethereal planes at night. In concrete boxes, under fluorescent lights, I limit the whisps of warped time and pretend I am finite. As though I can’t transcend the beat of my heart and slip into a state of truth.