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This has to be where it began, where it incubated, why I am the I who I am, no? Childhood dreams destroyed, twice abandoned, the silence like a noose around my neck, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum?
But.
If I am the sum of all my parts, must every part hold weight? The weight of the egg was the eggshell plus the chick inside. These events, are they merely a shell for something with a much greater mass? Does it matter if what I’ve said is true? What about all the fluid on the chick’s wings? It’s neither egg nor chick, but it has mass and takes up space: it matters; it’s matter. It’s the matter that isn’t accounted for, that I forget to name. Or that I lie about. Or that I forget when I lie about.
I know what I don’t know; I lie about what I know. I lie about while I know. This is the beginning. In the beginning were these words, and these words were with me and the words were me. This must have been the beginning. Yet, even in this beginning, there is the other beginning. In the beginning my grandfather created my voice and the words. Because before I said nothing, and my voice was without form and a void, and my thoughts hovered over the silence. Is what I’ve written the beginning of the beginning, or is it in itself an end?
I must sleep, for I have to work, and work keeps me from forgetting to be the I who I am when I am not this I. And work keeps me forgetting about the I that I was before I was this I. And the He and the She who are no longer Yous to Me. The He who is no longer a You to Anyone.

I am the I that is the square root of silence.