This, yes this, brought me to an experience of love: her body erupting, her nervous system igniting—overstimulated, like a mountain spilling lava and flame. It felt like an undying crush on life itself, something that insisted this is love, even when it burned like pain.
How could something so wondrous, so charged with power, also hurt so deeply? she wondered, reaching for love and finding sorrow instead.
In time, she began to think about sorrow rather than feel it—until it returned, venomous and sharp, reigniting her flame and pulling her deeper into what once seemed perilous. Yet when she reached it, she saw it was not peril at all.
What was truly perilous were the whispered hallways of others telling her what to do, what to avoid, who to be. That was the danger—because it wasn’t her, and yet it became her mind.
A mind crowded with haves and have-nots, noisy and obedient, like something burrowed beneath her skin for eternity—until she learned to stop loving the person in the mirror, and instead love the projection of life itself: something always twofold, and yet, by our best guess, singular.
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