2024-06-15 - [2.3] O that this too solid flesh ....

The gift of language has been a great leap forwards. When everything is still so very new and there are no words for anything apart from mother's love (or is she just grumbling about her itchy skin, her lack of sleep, her favourite meals not being available) and whatever the Nutshell egg can form for itself, it can also be repetitive. That's how you learn.

But language is exhausting too. And oh the frustration at any new experience - which is every experience - for which there simply are no words, not yet.

Nutshell knows there are others now. Louder/ quieter, near/far.

And the creature twitches inside the egg, shifts around, and although the movements are not linked to any impulse to make it so, they increase when there is a stronger burst of will from within, whether frustration or discovery. There is a boundary too - the world inside safe and known and secure.

An observation: this movement, this flesh, is also part of the me. But there are no words to describe this. I am here. "I am here." Tired from the effort, the movements slow again.