Who am I but the me I see? Personality is self-perception. I am a story I tell myself to make it seem like there’s some sort of narrative to life. And lately I’ve been acting out of character. It isn’t a flaw in the plot, it’s a flaw in the telling.

I need to find — no, create — my platonic ideal. The best future of all futures, the template I work off of every day.

I’m wise and calm. Open and understanding. People come to me for advice, and I can open up my heart and accept them in, no matter how flawed and hurtful they are. I’m at peace, come what may.

I’ve negotiated my needs. I am sex and friendship, tragedy and comedy, libido and destrudo.

I do not lie to myself. I do not lie to others.

I live life wantonly, comfortably at times and uncomfortably at others. I do not worry too much. I live life to the extent that it overflows and becomes art. That is how I make money, how I communicate with life, the universe, and everything.

I am twisted round my partner. She pushes me as I push her, and we grow around each other like braided hair, like the snakes of the caduceus, like a double helix, laying down the blueprints for a single life as we go. She is a perpendicular universe turned parallel.

I don’t ache inside, because there’s others there, filling the gap.

I’m happy.