Perhaps, our transness is made in and of fiction. I think a transition is strangely peculiar, it happens in imagination. 

And from the moment we speak out our volumes of within – come out from the vacuum of our truths, the only welcome we know are the replies of “Lies!”   

“You cannot be. I know you. That is not you. That is simply not true.”

Disbelief is gasped at us and cackles of laughter echo in the depths of our unknown audience.   

Widened eyes stare at us with wonder, with disgust and lust.

“Play, perform, entertain, will you?”

In this skepticism of others’ opinions of us, we are not truly real, we do not really exist. 

The words we utter here are but creation; fiction.  

But then again, maybe everything is possible in fiction? is it not? And so, instead of retort, of protesting truths, we keep to the lies; the very words they deem as lies. 

We fictionalise ourselves in a narrative that is told in imagination. 

We write our stories so as to materialise us from non-existence. 

Through the many iterations of our transitions, through the many drafts of who we are, who we were and who we ought to be, we keep on creating and growing in and of our many stories that become our flesh and bone.

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