To M., With Love

This New York City anti-smoking P.S.A. has created quite in a stir. My blog  entry, in the form of an epistle, is inspired by it.

Dear M.:

This morning, around 10:30 a.m. as my eyelids, still stinging from a few hours of a fitful sleep, opened, I called out groggily, “M.!”

A while later, on not getting a response, I called out again, louder this time. “M., M.!” I shouted. On still not being able to hear you cooing my name, I felt exactly like the tot in this message: spaced-out, lost, and alone.

A tidal wave of agony engulfed me, next. I know you wonder about my true identity.

Am I the coquettish woman, who sometimes allows herself to get snagged in the lives of lonely women or am I the carefree toddler, who’s tied to her mother’s apron strings or am I the disgruntled professional, always bemoaning the loss of her once-galloping career?

Most people are an aggregate of many facets. But I’m harder to read than most others, because I inhabit a multiverse of personalities, whose plastic boundaries are forever morphing and merging into one another.

Without realizing it, I must have sounded the consummate flirt, last evening, and veered off in a direction I hadn’t gone in a while. But daylight rearranged my emotional DNA again.

So, when I was roused by the sound of silence, I woke up feeling T., not an adult. I can’t attest to having vampire blood in my veins, but to state that nightfall alters me is not an untruth.

This is a conundrum that eludes me. I’m T. I’m A. I try to keep the two in airtight compartments, but I’m only flesh and blood, not titanium and motor oil.

Which is why, you see a hint of A. in T., and a streak of T. in A. But both love you dearly, more than you shall ever know.

Love,
T.

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