When I pressed play, her laugh arrived first: bright and raw, like sun cutting through the wet glass. Then she spoke, slow and emphatic. “I feel myself,” she said. “Do you ever get that? Like… I’m finally right here, and everything behind me is only practice.”
There was a tenderness in her recklessness. She admitted to nights of panic so sharp they left her shaking, and mornings when the world seemed impossibly generous. She had learned to befriend the contradictions instead of hating them. “Feeling myself isn’t constant,” she said. “Sometimes I feel myself and I want to shout. Sometimes I feel myself and I just want to sit very still and braid my hair. The point is noticing.” i feel myself kylie h 2021
I thought of how she’d painted her wall and thought: maybe we all get to paint something ridiculous across the rooms of our lives. Maybe we can invent murals that loop the sky and the sea and call them home. When I pressed play, her laugh arrived first:
I felt myself then, just for a moment: whole, unfinished, and exactly mine. “Do you ever get that