It will never turn human.

I wish I could still detach the marrow from the fish bone at the end of the day and let the real creature float aimlessly as if in a Kusturica movie. Let it hit the ground, the sand, the rock, the tail, the foot and the neck. Let it choke in its perceptions.

Distorted, of course, searching in a reluctant place for what the organism cannot hold as proof. Feed it with foolish myths of how it should dream and recall, then of how easy it would be to distinguish between all the people and find the same one. If only I could myself hold ground of my beliefs, the myths I’m telling and the prophecies I launch. The poor fish.

It will get stuck in this tardis the moment it will figure out: it will never be born from the mud of primordial, savage gardens. It will never turn human. And it will never encounter the sole ring that held its pieces together and its chain unbroken – the bone that kept its spine straight, away from circling into a skinless Ouroboros.

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