I, myself, had a very complicated relationship with emptiness, blankness, nothingness. Sometimes I wanted only to fill it, frightened that if I didn’t it would eat me alive or kill me. But sometimes I longed for total annihilation in it – a beautiful, silent erasure. A desire to be vanished.

I feel bad that I don’t identify with the purity of babies.

Also, the silence is always there. The silence doesn’t go away.

Though our minds try to tell a different story.

I loved him too. But at the same time, who knew what love was exactly? I still didn’t have it figured out. I remembered what Dr. Jude had said. The question is not what is love, but is it really love I’m looking for?

Did anyone ever say that life was to be enjoyed and not suffered? What if the suffering was the point? But I didn’t want to suffer anymore. I couldn’t take it. That was clear. So I was going to try to be happy, even if it brought me more suffering.

There I was, a woman on the rocks by the ocean, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for the return of her lover. Everything I knew about art would say that I was a painting. I was certainly a poem. Sappho was too – her life, perhaps, unknowable, but her feelings were mine. I was mythic.

I don’t watch a lot of porn, but a typical search term for me is “fat lesbians.” What a beautiful fantasy: to be accepted and embraced and adored as your biggest self, the most you, by a woman who is her fullest her.

Let’s pretend you are capable of being who I think I need you to be: a love story.

Maybe that’s all that prayer was anyway – a cosmic google. In that case, any iPhone could be a synagogue.