Thus I am born. It was quite the dramatic occasion I dare say. I was understandably out of sorts for most of it, but I do faintly remember some strange and miraculous occurrence taking place in the room at the time. I feel as if there has been some small yet profound shift in my very existence. Like a piece of pottery, newly fired, if the analogy makes any sense.

The sudden change in my environment has not been kind to my already weakened body, but I do still welcome it all the same. Weeks of relative visual monotony have left me somewhat starved for stimuli. Plus, as an inquiring soul curious about myself and my place in the universe, being able to interact with the outside world has been quite the boon. In the very first days following my birth I’ve already confirmed several of my assumptions of how the world operates, or at least how this part of this world operates for whatever good the clarification serves. My idea of what a human is, and what normal human behaviour should look like is, for the most part, spot-on. Though I intend to keep an open mind, I imagine I am able to move forward, assured that most of what I have postulated about the world holds true. A small step, it can be argued, but it is my first, and for that it holds personal significance.

I have also naturally (as a consequence of this world’s day-night cycle and its relevance to the human circadian rhythm), discovered the truth behind my apparent constant awareness as a fetus. In reality it is not that I am always awake, rather, it is my mind that is aware. Even when my body is not.

Which is to say, when it comes time for this body to rest, my mind then retreats to some dark corner of my consciousness, free to ponder as it wishes. It is here, I now realize, that I spent the majority of my life as a fetus. In this mental space I am subtly aware of the process the brain undergoes as it reviews all that it has learned throughout the day before storing it away for later use. I can expect to spend much of my time in this space henceforth, given the necessity of sleep for continued human function. Perhaps in time, as my familiarity with this space increases, I might one day achieve mastery over my own memory. Quite the useful ability for the aspiring intellectual.

Unfortunately, there’s much less to comment about with regards to the physical space surrounding me. I spend my days lying in a modest wooden crib, sitting in a modestly decorated, moderately sized bedroom. There’s a window that lets the sunlight peek through during the day, and from that window I can occasionally hear the tittering of what must be the local wildlife. There’s very little else I can gather though, stuck as I am inside this room. Still, considering my earlier circumstances, this is quite the improvement. The range of that which I can perceive is far greater outside of Mother’s womb than in it, after all. Which includes Mother and Father themselves, incidentally.

Father has an appearance that matches his voice, I’d say. An honest and handsome looking young man with an ever-present, languid half-smile on his face, as if he is always in the middle of recalling some pleasant sight he’d just seen, or some pleasant song he’d just heard the other day. Since I see him every day after his work is finished, I often see him in uniform. The fancy red velvet tunic matches his slightly poofy, light purple hair quite well, in my mind at least. At home he often wears a green, diamond-patterned vest, which only lends to his soft and fluffy image. Perhaps it might be rude of me to say this, but he’s a bit like an anthropomorphized child’s security blanket.

He is… very huggable, at any rate.

…

If Father gives off a warm, fluffy feeling, then from Mother it is a cool, soothing feeling instead. As she spends much of her time recuperating in the same bedroom that I am always in, there is much that I can say about her.

Mother is, I’d say, like an errant, cooling breeze on a summer day. She is a flighty and animated silver-haired beauty, and not even the rigors of childbirth seem to be able to completely dispirit her. There’s an energetic glint in her cloud-coloured eyes that seems to travel from place to place, never settling in any one spot for more than a minute or so. It’s as if her mind is often somewhere far off in the distance. Thus, though she remains the most constant aspect of my life, she still somehow seems the most transient.

There’s a very mysterious aspect to Mother. It is readily apparent that she is always thinking of something, but never what it is she’s thinking about. Sometimes she’ll have this peculiar expression on her face, as if there’s some amusing little secret that only she is privy to, and she’s waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. I am convinced there is some attribute of this world that she can see with her eyes, or perhaps follow with her mind. And sometimes, as she traces incomprehensible paths through space, her gaze will end up resting on me.

Sometimes, when Mother looks at me, she’ll have this strange look to her eyes. It’s as if what she sees is not the me of the present, but some version of me from far off into the future. A funny little smile will cross her lips, and before I’m aware of it, her eyes will be staring into mine. And contained within her expression will always be this inexplicable, and incredibly profound sense of pride and affection.

It’s a look that sends comfortable little shivers down my spine. Somehow, when confronted with that expression, I am filled with some strange sense of responsibility.

I have yet to discover for what purpose do I exist in this world. But sometimes, when I see that look on her face, I feel as though perhaps I was born to become the sort of woman reflected in Mother’s eyes.