But the answer is no, I wasn't before. I was just slightly opened, just a tiny fracture with light slipping through. Every bright shiny gossamer (how many times do I talk about gossamer-things? Was I a butterfly wing in a former?) day brings the crevasse bigger, brighter, opened. I'm a vessel. There's some muck of the everyday in the vessel now, and I'm learning to accept it as part of the chunky body of the vessel.
Sharing my existence has never been easy for me. But it's never been full of so much bursting love before, either.
But why is the narrative eluding me? I have no time for it now. Everyone will see. It's for no one and every one right now. If it exists at all. I don't have 10 minutes to surreptisciously pound away, gaining momentum, then back to the proverbial grindstone. It's not my own, now. This is a lesson. Not my favorite one, but it's a lesson.