I found myself once.
It was an accident.
I was there in the frame, eyes holding their own brand of wonder and seriousness and sleepy heartache. Lips guarded.
Hair was a mess, as it often chooses to be. My black and white self was unremarkable, not much to look at. I was fixated.
I think I was thinking of composition. My physical body in space, wondering how I should fit with the straight lines. I could see how they contained me in that safe, solid kind of way.
I was only there because I needed to find the light. Always the light. Even when I am indulging the dark.
I could see who I was in that moment so clearly. Ordinary, infinite, soft lines, tough edges, searching, immersed, just. Just.
My life did not change after that moment. I found myself and was neither disappointed nor exalted. I just was. I may have imagined myself giving a slight nod of my head, as if to say, yes, there you are.
It was the pulling me out of the life I live inside my mind and skin that showed me. There I was, as I’ve always been. Caught. Unreadable.
I found myself once. Hair a mess. In the light of the dark.