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My life began like a biblical story. A light appeared and the world formed around me.

It is the
first of my memories. A sense of being in an otherwise empty void.

As I grew, I realized I was different. I understand everyone says they are different, in that bitterly
ironic repetitious, unoriginal way. Like hipsters, who claim to be unique, but each looks
alarmingly like another, as if a cloning machine got stuck one day spitting out skinny jeans,
scruffy beards and random t-shirts covered in clever sayings. But I was different. I couldnt
relate to those who surrounded me, and I felt alone, even in a crowd I felt alone. The sense of
isolation can be overwhelming. It can swallow you whole and never allow you to shake its grip. I
didnt look the same, I didnt sound the same, hell, I didnt even smell the same. To call me an
island would be an understatement.

I wear my age on my skin, like most, and as I age, I feel and see the damage done to my
outside layer. The wrinkles, the dry skin, are becoming the norm, not the exception. The
buoyancy of youth has long been replaced with tired nature of age. My once majestic mane has
become reduced to a wilted mess. It hangs limply to the back like a forgotten birthday present.
Once I had been prideful in my appearance, my colour, my strength, but age has stolen my
vanity. My body is bent.

I sit in seclusion. My home had once been full of family, but now it was only me and ghosts of
those before me. My brothers and sisters were long gone, memories of a different time. It was
the last time I could remember feeling normal. Now I am alone, a forgotten remnant. Now
when that unmoving sun rises, I feel useless. Those around me seem destined for something
more, I seem destined for a slow death, my body shrinking daily.

Just when it seemed hope was something belonged to others, He came. He looked at my
wrinkled form but saw past that. He gripped my body with purpose, made me feel alive again.
When he laid me down, I felt euphoric, I felt strong, but most of all, I felt...something. He had a
knife in his hand. When he made the first cut, I was overjoyed. If I could have wept at that point,
I wouldve. Eventually, he finished and I lay before him, naked on a wooden slab, which was
covered in the marks, nicks, and cuts of previous occupants. He picked me up in his strong
hands at once giving me a feeling of security. I knew I would not be dropped. He carried me,
effortlessly, to the stove and placed me gently in the warm water. I was finally complete. I would
be a part that nights dinner, after all what stew doesnt need carrots?