If the first path is divinity, and the second absurdity, then I will find a new way to contextualize that which defines my every waking moment.

I cannot bring light to the beginning or the end, but I can illuminate the middle with whatever small powers I possess.


Last night was all nighter, punctuated by the reception of a 2am missive from the new friend and a hour long, predawn chat with him, each nice respites from the pain.

The letters are very much still happening. We’ve connected on Instagram, along with two other friends from the same site – one who lives in Cairo, and another a few hours south of me in hill country. Instagram seems banal when contrasted with the letters, but infinitely more convenient for sharing small thoughts back and forth.

I rarely post pictures of myself, so while I now have context – faces to hang the words on – I myself remain a ghost.  He tells me he gets it. He too is tired of ‘being perceived’.  This phrase is completely acceptable coming from him, but I can’t imagine myself using these words without sarcasm, no matter how accurate they are.

I don’t know how long the letters will last. Another month? A year? Longer? It’s been a long time since I’ve made a friend so entirely on my wave-length, and I’m trying not to overthink it.

The girl in Cairo is also has potential to become an excellent pen pal, and we gel very well, but it’s not quite the same. Maybe with time.

When discussing all of this with the husband I found he has a similar sounding board. For some reason she calls him ‘the fishmonger’.


I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I am not actually a very chill girl™️ but am, in fact, simply doing an excellent job of deprioritzing myself.

The reprioritization is daunting.

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