I’m looking for a man in finance… Just kidding. Urgh, saying that really has messed me up.

I am seeking… To be seen… Someone who can see me fully. Witness me. Caress me. Hold me. Catch my breath. I am seeking someone I can be myself around. No more of this, pretending, making yourself up to be palatable to others. Dressing myself up every day. Putting on a mask. Is that too much to ask for. Someone to love me just the way I am? No mascara on the lashes. No filler on the lips. The little bit of my tummy, the dip or two in my hips. So far this ask has proven impossible. Probably because we are all too busy in this world right now. Looking at ourselves. Looking at our screens. Alone in such close proximity.

One day, I had a dream that I met someone and together, we formed a power couple. Producing our best work together. Creatives at our core, in our bones, making a living from our labors of love. Someone interesting. Someone inspiring. Someone decent but not too good looking. You know I can’t handle competition.

I am seeking opportunities to be generous, to love and give more to the world than I thought, capable. Yet another challenging project. Yet another beautiful idea brought to life, and like that, set free. Just as I want to stay, here. In my freedom. With someone who really challenges me and interests me. In a good way.

I see the rolling pine-filled hills of California. I touch the hot rocks lane out in the summer sun. I stand in the streams rolling over the grassy Donegal mountains. I fix myself a dress and matching skirt made from the woven linen of Oaxacan cotton. I put on my shoes, sandals that help me glide along the rocky banks, and climb high on the buildings in cities, flitting across oceans in seconds. I smell the cloistered churches and hidden abbeys of England, of Mont St. Michel. I smell the light beaming through the holy stained glass and the lecterns, and the quiet marble monuments, the fading graves. I speak whispers of Earth’s flowers, growing in climbing vines along the broken gates and wuthering walls of time and patriarchy. I shoot moon beams from my heart across the star sky to speak with new, celestial beings I know not. I chant in the shapes of the wind rushing over the water over a remote lake in the mountains, as a glowing pink moon rises up over the silhouette of the ridges. A kingdom I will try to claim as a steward of my own. I taste the sweet richness of jasmine and Flor de Lis, as if I am a water lily in one of Monet’s paintings. I stretch out like his paintings also, along the walls of the MOMA, sprinkled with layers of flower undefined. Some parts of me are clear. Others are more abstract. I do not claim to know the truth of my depths or the depths of others. How could anyone?