my entire life is made of fantasies. people i wish i could have been and things i should have done. no part of “me” actually exists in material reality. there are a few broken, scattered fragments of who i am but they’re so few and far away now you can’t really form a coherent identity out of them. even those moments weren’t lived in my body anyway, maybe not even in my own mind.

i used to be fine with that, with not existing. i didn’t need more; i always found my body a bit disgusting even as a kid and hated being perceived and talking to others but it didn’t matter. i didn’t need to have a body or identity or or a life or anything really, i was simply something that observed the world arround me and sometimes dreamed of being something else and i was fine with that. why couldn’t it have stayed that way? why was i so arrogant to think i could be more than thoughts and wishes and regrets? i opened a pointless wound on myself that now i can never close. i should have stayed ignorant. i should have never realized i was trans.