I have written or write on the back of a photograph, an image of what used to be me, I write my name in code, in letters, in the shortest sentence of me that is possible. I write Wilson.
I am Wilson.
And the farther further I go from here the less the letters mean and the more symbol I become. Metaphor that extends down my arms, the length of me, and truncates at the belt of my pants. Upper-half gone to shores and planes and boats and all the walking I did to arrive here where the sun never rises and all my meat is up for parcel. Packaged in me is something for these people, this village, where I breached circle after circle of arms and locking mechanisms and found the bottom, the center, the hiding screen that masked them from me. I went inwards. I arrived.
We become unnamed in this.
I wrote on the back of an image a word that was once and will never again be me. I wrote once on the back of a photograph that I was Wilson. Wilson has been consumed. Wilson is gone.
Start again with new letters. Rename this thing I have become, here, in this dark place, where the people blanket me in arms and the sky never brightens. Here, where I will only and forever exist.
I am not Wilson.
I have never written on the back on this photograph.
My most heart-felt apologies.
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