Something more like myself in certain moments.

Like when I saw Phil Elverum singing lost and lonely songs about the myth of the white stag, the mistakes men have made, the lingering darkness clouding our hearts and judgments; and the noise came and washed my brokenness and made it closer to whole again. There was a man sitting next to me who touched my shoulder unexpectedly and asked me if could use a glass of water. I raised my palms to my cheeks and found they were astoundingly hot. I blushed even further and said yes. What a moment of kindness, it really floored me. I think everyone in the room was feeling nervous and overcome; we all knew something terrible and great was in the air. The girl sitting in front of me had swan feathers pasted into her hair, I almost reached out to touch them.

Or when new friends took me along with them from eating chocolate and sliced fruits while cushioned in overstuffed bordello red booths, drinking champagne cocktails and pretending to be people other than ourselves, to the sticky seats of the Laurelhurst to drink beer from cups and throw popcorn at the bulging eyes of a futuristic Schwartzenegger. Indulging me the many crushes that fill me, everywhere I go.

Or even sitting alone in my apartment at night watching Mansfield Park and allowing myself to make deep sighs and imagine what a time I would have had dragging my skirt hem through the mud of the moors to meet suitors in bursts of sunlight, and be told by them believable truths about our love filled futures.

Or walking into shops and tracing my fingers lightly over the richness of goodies proferred by creative minds and their crafty fingers, collecting gifts for the ones I adore.

Something more like myself, I suppose, when I remember that the shadows of worry and doubt that reside in me can occasionally be befriended, accepted, understood. I want to love everyone so much. I want you to know my fondness for you.