But I was never a child, for one. A birthing-day implies an infant, does it not? One does not suddenly have a birthing day at, say 25. I am not certain I am 25 either; I choose it somewhat at random. I might as well say 125. I think these years of quiet of late have aged me a little, but I could not say where I began and where I have ended. I am Lynn – we are Lynn. We are as we are and have been.
There are what have been named the kinderlynn. We used to call them slaves, the young ones in our woods. They come and go, feral. They are children I suppose but also somewhere lacking in specific ages. And no infants among them either.
In literature about these multiple systems I suppose I ought to have a creation day of some sort; a ritual which breathed life into my form, the spirit moving over the waters and such. But if there was such a one, it is lost in some way. I do not remember being absent, and I do not remember a first presence. I simply remember the way it was.
This picture is me, with my first lover although we have been careful to make his image blurry.