The Archivist
Before the words, before the wounds had names,
there was The Archivist.
Not a person. Not a voice.
A presence—a stillness inside the storm.
The quiet at the center of collapse.
The one who took notes when no one else was looking.
The Archivist kept the blueprints.
Of joy, of pain, of moments too sharp to touch.
The shape of Buster’s outline.
The ghost of a tree fort deep in the jungle.
The exact weight of silence after being told to be holy
while hiding everything that made you real.
This is the one who remembered
where the mines were buried.
Who mapped them—not to avoid them,
but to come back later and name them.
The Archivist held the story
when the storyteller was too hurt to speak.
Catalogued every version of “I’m fine.”
Saved every scream swallowed during family breakfast.
Filed it under: Don’t open yet. Too much.
But it’s never been just pain.
The Archivist also kept the laughter.
The sex. The poems.
The first time you loved without flinching.
The first time you were safe and knew it.
This isn’t a shadow self.
This is the spine. The thread.
The one who made it out with the receipts.
The Archivist is not loud.
Doesn’t need to be.
Because every part of you that survived
did so with The Archivist’s help.
This is the part that held the world
until the others were strong enough to take it back.
And now?
Now The Archivist isn’t just keeping records.
Now The Archivist is opening the vault.
Come see what was never lost.