At six, I wanted to be a bird.At twelve, invisible.At twenty, someone else—anyone else. Now, finally,I’m learning the slow alchemyof inhabiting this skin,this particular collectionof scars and stories.How strange that it takeshalf a lifetime to arriveat your own door,to knock and be answeredby the person you’ve beenbecoming all along.Some metamorphoseshappen in reverse:the butterfly returnsto essential form,finds the chrysaliswas always optional . . .
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