Ladyd by Ladys

How should I introduce myself? What could possibly define this fluid, ever-shifting self of mine? I must have sat there in silence, lost in thought, for far too long. The more I contemplate my identity, the more I try to construct it, the more it seems to collapse and fade away.

I lift my gaze, away from my lap, and focus instead on my toes. Then the dirty ground. Then a line cutting across the vast sky. When I tilt my head up, it becomes the ceiling above me. My neck aches from bending downward. I am always looking down. The ground is a companion that invites my gaze. I see no stains upon the ceiling. Perhaps it is more perfect than the sky.

My identity… what is it like? Perfect like the ceiling, or free and beautiful like the unseen sky? It is all so circular, so endlessly tangled. Perhaps this is nothing more than my own repetitive torment. These questions have no answers, because if they did, they could no longer be called me.

Do I suffer? Not at all. I do not suffer from having no answers. I drift in a quiet, drowsy contentment. I drag my feet as I walk, yet I believe it is a kind of dance. I crawl along the ground, and think that it is others who are crawling instead. And how do I know that I am the one crawling? I do not know. But Ladid once said so. Crawling. Crawling again, are we?

That is what Ladid said. And who is Ladid? That question is just as difficult to answer as who I am.

Ladid… perhaps I should begin by telling you about the first time we met.

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