The Writing Of Rebecca Bones

There is a particular kind of thought that does not arrive as a scream, but as a quiet, calculated curiosity.

Not I want to die.
Never that.

Something colder.
More precise.

What would it take for you to understand?

It is not born from a desire to disappear, but from the unbearable weight of having been present and not seen.

Of having stood, fully formed, in the same space as someone who never truly looked.

And so the mind, desperate for symmetry,
begins to imagine extremes.
Not out of chaos but out of logic twisted by hurt.

If absence creates gravity, then perhaps the ultimate absence would finally make me undeniable.

If loss sharpens memory, then perhaps becoming loss would carve me into permanence.

It is a dangerous kind of reasoning, not loud enough to alarm and not wild enough to dismiss.

It feels almost… reasonable. Almost clean.

That is what makes it so unsettling.

Because it is not about death. It is about recognition.
Not about ending, but about finally being witnessed in a way that cannot be ignored,
rewritten, or minimized.

The thought does not stay long. It passes,
like something that knows it does not belong to me, only through me.
But it leaves behind a question that lingers longer than it should:

Why does it feel like understanding only arrives when something is lost?

Why does absence seem louder than presence?

And beneath that,  quieter, but far more honest :
Why did I ever feel like I had to disappear to be seen at all?

There is no answer that satisfies the part of me that asked the question.
Only the slow recognition that the premise itself was never mine to carry.

That being unseen is not the same as being unworthy of being seen.

That someone else’s blindness does not require my disappearance to become visible.

And so the thought fades into what it always was :
not a desire,
not a truth,
but a distortion shaped by hurt.

A question that felt sharp enough to be real, until I looked at it closely and saw what it was made of.

And what it was not.