I am an aviatrix, weaving in and out of voluptuous clouds, lost in the majesty of the sky.

I am a wallflower, sitting in the back of a pick-up truck. I stand as it emerges from a tunnel. The lights of the city glistening in the chilly night. The wind whipping my hair in all directions. My soul touching infinity.

I am a spy, clicking a mahjong tile onto the table. The women flutter and coo when he enters the parlor. My red lips hint at a smile and my eyes demurely look away when his curious gaze settles on me.  

I am a magician, walking down a hall of mirrors. I turn to look at one, startled to find a stranger’s face staring back at me.

I am a daughter, strolling down a garden path in my school uniform. Images of my father folding origami paper into insects keep playing in my mind. I stop and look up. Cherry blossoms rain down my face.

I am a chaperone, taking the train with a beautiful brat. Her precocious eyes take measure of me. I wonder why her disdain stings. 

I am a thespian, donning a mask of glitter and feathers, eager to be somebody else for a few hours.

I am a teenager, drifting off to sleep at the crack of dawn. I spent the whole night walking the streets of New York City with a boy I had just met.

I am all of these selves. And none of them.


5 thoughts on “SELVES COLLIDING

  1. Pingback: An Aged Self: The 19th of April 1999 – Portland, Maine | Forgotten Correspondence

  2. Pingback: Could the real me, please stand up? | chey being

  3. Pingback: Cowbridge garden | litadoolan

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