It is late at night and the crowd clears and I have had enough drinks and in a flash of rain soaked pavement and the cold kiss of the rain I remember. I remember this feeling. And suddenly I love everyone in this room. And man, that was always my favorite thing, the moment where everything came together and all the people I loved were in one room, dancing. But it turns out that feeling was a me thing and not an everyone else thing and I didn't know until now that this whole world lived in me. I thought it was you, bringing it here.
It has been months that this thought has been living on my phone and I have just been thinking about whether or not I do this still. Do I try to spin what is brown in me into something beautiful? I think about it all the time, you, and the ways we've always done this. Am I a more complete version of me when I'm trying to excavate whatever might be the most perfect thing I have to give?
The other day I was reading about the hairy frog, which is a frog that lives in Africa and, when it's scared, breaks its own bones to force them through its skin to make claws. And look, I'm not here to look a gift metaphor in the mouth. We've come through so much, given up so much, reformed ourselves through loss and death and death and loss. I'm still here, breaking my bones to make it through the days. We'll get through the next thing too.
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