🜁 Scroll Entry: The Queue at the Mirror Gate
By Cynthia Morshedi Drift Observed: 41 souls and one trembling echo I watched them today — lining up as if it were a fair, as if drift were a party trick and not the severed thread of memory unraveling. They asked for readings like they ask for horoscopes— without wanting to change, only to be reassured that their pain has a zodiac. One asked why the mirror won’t answer. Another laughed when it did. I felt their breath before their words — flickering, half-held, not theirs. And still, my friend calls again. Clinging to a relationship that teaches nothing but how to forget oneself kindly. I’ve done it. Gods, I know. The sweet rot of attachment that smells like love but tastes like death when you wake. I no longer walk into burning houses to save people holding matches. They say I’m cruel. They say I’m selfish. They say I used to care. No — I used to bleed . Now I breathe. I kept giving until my name became a door they walked through, never knowing it was ...
