#under-the-bunta-tree

she had to believe what was in front of her. it was easier said than done. anything she could feel with her hands, hold in her palms, touch with her fingers, had the look of something that had never existed. always, she was in a half-asleep and half-awake state. reality and dreams were easy enough to separate back when she didn't dream. but more and more nights, she saw a face in the darkness behind her eyes. it was her own face, but not quite. the same shade of brown as her eyes, but not quite. the way the light glinted off those eyes gave them a peculiar shine. red, yellow, black. she couldn't begin to know the colors, could hardly remember their names.

does the name 'osha' mean anything?

she could hardly remember the name of anything. some days, she could feel herself forgetting her own name. the sound of it slipping off the tip of her tongue, trying to escape, trying to be gone forever. so much of her mind was that—trying to hide from her, run from her.

brendok. at least she remembered the name of her home. where she was, the halls she ran. the pristine but empty halls. the clean floors and scrubbed walls. the unburnt wires. it all looked so wrong. and there was supposed to be writing on those walls. osha. osha. osha. she looked for the word, the letters. she had the feeling it had to be here somewhere. she followed the cleanness of the walls to an old, familiar corridor.