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Not born, not created, not formed with delicate thought and understanding. No one sat and folded their fingers upon your clay and shaped you. Nor did someone meld their naked flesh with another in hopes of creating something wholly new.You weren’t, and then you were, and now you are. Liquid courses through your veins; it carries life beneath your layers. Your innards take care of themselves, as decent organs should. Any impaction is cleared as new pathways are created. The air you intake is kept clean of harmful debris. Blemishes are abraded and exfoliated by the now constant motion on your surface.You have a name, or at least you think you do. Whether it is truly yours, you will never know. There is no language you mutually speak, in the way that an animal cannot communicate with his master. Even a dog must have a true name, but he answers the call because it’s been repeated. Perhaps he merely thinks the word means “there is love for you here.”There is love for you. But they do not understand you. Myths, lies, and guesses surround your existence. You have no father, but they claim you do. They call him Pulse. Stories are endless and vast. Each day a new one supplements their understanding. He is Pulse and you are Gran Pulse.They ask for too much, but never from you. Sending prayers to gods they have created, the responses never come. Cocoon is ancient. Not knowing how much longer she can last, she asks in their stead. You reply.They break your surface and release a power you did not know was yours. You’ll feel it only once. For a moment, you understand what they see in you. Why they doubt this strength is yours alone. Surely only a god is capable of such benevolence. For their sake, you have given her the gift of time.Your name is now Pulse. You are your father. Yet, you are still you.There is new love for you. Again, with naming comes love. But also pain.The foreign body sends fiery irritation in unending waves. Antibodies flood to it, trying to remedy the itching. How it itches! Digging into your skin provides no relief. All attempts by your immune system are futile. Only time will tamp the swelling.Like a splinter, with enough patience your body rejects. You are free, but lesser. That piece belonged to you. They claimed Cocoon was born of you, removed like a rib and formed anew. She was your child. In fact, she had always been her own. Just as you simply are, she simply was. While watching her, you could catch glimpses of her organs slipping beneath her destroyed exterior. Whatever injury she’d suffered, her healing abilities had been more adept than yours. Her only complaint had been how she couldn’t stay longer with those who needed her.She was never your child. But you cradled her like one, and now with her gone you are no longer whole. The wound is raw and the ache eclipses all pain or irritation. No one treats your ailment, for there is no doctor who could. You let the infection spread. Piece by piece your organs fail, leaving only one. It beats faintly in your chest, cannibalizing the oozing pus.You wait. Limping along, time passes for you while simultaneously ignoring all others. Blessed with the opportunity to think, you let your mind wander. What is left, something worse than this? Or perhaps nothing at all? There is an afterlife they speak of. A chance exists to be new, whole, and magnificent. Improved. Perfect. You have learned that they know little.Even in short periods, they forget. New myths, lies and guesses surround new questions. Where she once stood, there rests only her gravestone. Polished and gleaming as all things well loved should be. Her name has been rewritten with Bhunivelze. But that name too, is obscured. The polished surface is now covered in grime with no one to clean in remembrance. No name exists anymore; there is just a moon.Just as she is not here with you now, she will not be there in this afterlife. Though, your love for her still is. Your Cocoon.You hope for her sake that they are wrong.Even in these final moments, you are christened once more. You are Nova Chrysalia. They still have love for you. This alone cannot staunch the weeping from your pores. Eroding by the second, quaking in agony, you let the damage cover every inch of you. Their loss will be greater to you than hers. For you realize too late that you love them. Your People.You pray for their sake that they are right.