A Better Self 

Emma Peterson

I used to have a diagram of all the people I'd met. Color coded lines connecting distant acquaintances. Circles around the names of friends, squares for the boys I'd kissed. These chance encounters of dashed lines and curved arrows, deriving joy from the chaos. Memories have a different potency from that time. 

We were recently in a cafe, three on the couch and collage materials spread across the table. A reminder of those entanglements of scribbled names, unknowable futures for our next selves, a typical girl chat. She asked, have you ever met someone who is you, but a slightly better version of you? A canopy bed, Polaroids on the walls, glimpses of an idyllic life that might have been yours. 

Jealousy is a lonely sickness. I asked Roza how to stop being jealous of others and all she told me was comparison is the thief of joy. Do I have that thing, in me? A compulsion to continually be someone better, looking to the person you want to be, for yourself, and not another. There have been so many iterations of myself in the past four years. I can't help but fixate on moments when a decision would have made all the difference if I had only had foresight. Split ends of lifetimes. 

February, a year ago, there was a shift. In a terrible sort of way, sensations came into focus. How beautifully the stars arranged themselves, the gentleness of cherry blossoms floating in the breeze, crisp mornings warmed by the sun. I couldn't understand why these reminders weren't enough. 

The moments exist in a jumble of sorts. Those brief smiles, passing each other on the back staircase. Lighting a candle despite the obvious dangers of doing so in a dorm. Friday movie nights piling blankets on the floor. Laying on Red Square and watching the reflection of Suzzallo in the puddles. Lives lived and still longed for. 

I walked along the waterfront arboretum trail, sitting on a bench to eat my sandwich. I was different when I was here, then; maybe I wouldn’t hold onto this regret if I were a better version of myself, then.

I don't write often, but I'd been in a creativity slump and wanted to get some of my thoughts out of my head.