She called herself Hetrogene, because she was scattered in her ideologies, in her stories, in her beliefs and in her conflicts.
Like oil and water, soluble and insoluble, she came in waves of apathy and empathy, sweet and sour, dessert wine and vinegar, dejected and exultant.
The tides were her companions, gushing in a collection of differences, indifferences.
She was not solid, like a compass over the North Pole. She was fluid, like the weather. Not flaky, just molten.
You could find her in your debris, and lose her in your wreckage. You could hold her, but then like time she would slip away. She would return to leave again, to return. A paradox.
She wanted everything and nothing. An exodus between the two.
She called herself Hetrogene and because of this, she was nomadic, an émigré of herself.
hetrogene 