I lay, naked beneath the covers and I think of you.
The spaces without you, the moments alone.
I think about the many different faces I wear, with you and without you.
All of these faces are me, but all of them are not me.
They are things I have given meaning, meaning to mean me.
They are arbitrary, and hollow, but at the same time, full, abundant, purposefully.
At least I can say that. At least I can say they are purposeful. At least I can say that I am actively making choices in my life.
It will not be me, who wakes up at 50 and wonders what happened to her life.
I will be able to chart my life, on my face and hands. On my body and mind. In my surroundings and fate. I will remember where I have been, and who I have been. And most importantly why. I will remember why I have been the way I am, why I chose to be this way, and why above all else it was important to be. To be just this.