I feel so fragile. So fragile, when I talk to my family. It is because they know me. And they don't know me as well as they think they do. They have an idea of me, of what I represent to them. But the idea is true, it is a part of me, a part that most don't see anymore, that a stranger would never have known was there. It is faith, or fear, smallness, it is dreams and possibility, and they summon these things to the surface, and it aches. I didn't know they were buried so deep, I didn't know they were there at all, but seeing them now, I fear I am losing them. I fear I will not always be what I have been to you. And I fear I will never change, never grow, I will collapse.

And there is a piece of me, a piece of me that cries when you cry, and that feels desperate at your desperation.

Sister, when you cry,
I feel your tears running
Down my face

You are moving on, you say, you believe. But your steps are timid, and there is a sorrow in your walking, and you are always throwing lassos round the past, just in case. And maybe you should. You are stepping into nothingness, on that we can agree, but is it a step away from somethingness too? Is there a somethingness? How could we know? And you are afraid and I am your lasso, but I am falling. But I will be for you, brother, I will be for you, even if only a dream, even as I am crushing. Welcome to the night.