update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/006.md

@@ -42,4 +42,16 @@ Within that dream, she saw a field very much like the one that she lay in, but a
 
 Within that dream, though, The Woman saw a field very much like the one that she lay in then, and her mind unwound and unraveled and began to fray and the sun rose and set and rose and set and rose and set and years passed and centuries passed and perhaps millennia, too, and then sixteen hours and twenty-three minutes later, she was lifted up up up out of the dream and set back into the real world. The bureaucrat was arrested, the world heaved a sigh of relief, and then set about doing its best to forget her.
 
-But The Woman who was Michelle who was Sasha would not let that happen. She *could not* let that happen. She and the others who were thus transitively lost did not deserve to be lost again, forgotten by society, such that 
+But The Woman who was Michelle who was Sasha would not let that happen. She *could not* let that happen. She and the others who were thus transitively lost did not deserve to be lost again, forgotten by society, and nor did society itself deserve to forget that uncaring ones existed so prevalently. While she stayed as close to her superlative friend as she could, even after ey grew too terrified to delve in, to meet her as best they could as Sasha and AwDae, she campaigned for change, for greater protections from those who would view individuals as consumables to be chewed up and spit out
+
+And then, one day, her superlative friend disappeared. Days went by, and weeks, and then before the month was out, she received a letter detailing the ways in which ey hoped to move forward how perhaps ey would die, but at least ey would die in the act of creation, of making a new world of utter freedom, where dreaming together was the warp of the world, and intent the weft, and ey both succeeded and failed, for now the world in which we live is one woven from dreams and intent, but ey is absent. Ey became the weaver. Ey became the loom. Ey became the fabric. We feel em beneath our fingertips as they trace along the weave, but ey is not here.
+
+But I digress.
+
+-----
+
+We are built to love, The Woman and I and all of our kin, and do not let any of us or anyone else try to convince you otherwise, for we *all* are built to love. We are built to love and to be loved.
+
+We are also built of trauma, The Woman and I and all of our kin. We are built of trauma on trauma on trauma, and trauma and trauma. We are stacked brick by brick. We are built with logs stacked in a square, notches cut to make them fit. We are cabins. We are houses. We are buildings and skyscrapers. We are wobbly towers. We are smokestacks in the wind, and when the air passes over us a clockwise vortex will form and then a widdershins vortex and then a clockwise vortex and the air is life and the air is time and the vortex shedding tugs and pulls at us until we topple.
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+