Rhapsodic Fugue

Layered.
Not chaos exactly, but not clarity either.
A textured unfolding of selves, woven through time and rupture.

This is the strange brilliance of survival.
You don’t always disappear to escape.
Sometimes you fragment to hold more than one truth at a time.

The part of you that performed.
The part that disappeared.
The silence that kept you safe.
The pulse that kept you going.

A fugue is not forgetting.
It’s a rearrangement.
A reshuffling of consciousness when the world refused to hold your wholeness.

And yet, in the dissonance, there’s something rhapsodic—
a raw, honest beauty in what it means to be alive inside a body that’s known rupture.

You may not always recognize yourself.
You may lose the thread.
But your return was never meant to be linear.

This isn’t about fixing.
It’s about listening to the composition emerging from your fractures.
Letting it speak. Letting it lead.

In the blur of memory and identity,
There is still you.
Not untouched. But undeniably here.