a room full of mirrors, that's what it felt like, my head, back then. every angle covered, every reflection perfect, and the dizziness of trying to maintain that illusion, the exhaustion of pretending that the surface was the whole damn story. and now? feels like a broken disco ball, all those jagged edges catching the light in unexpected ways, throwing it all over the place, messy and imperfect and… real, yeah, maybe that’s it, and i wonder if that's why i keep going back to the ocean, because it doesn't pretend, it just… is, turbulent and vast and utterly indifferent to my little dramas, and the way cosmo just barrels in, without a second thought, no mirrors, no angles, just pure, unadulterated… being, maybe that’s the lesson, maybe that’s the remembering i’m supposed to be doing, not of who i was, but of how to… simply… be. that photo… it felt like looking at a stranger who had stolen my skin.