i don't know how to say this. one day, i woke up and i saw a part of myself i had never seen before. you can think of it as a third eye, a third arm, a patch of bright green skin, a furry tail. it was new, it was strange, it was unknown, unexplored. i thought, i want to tell my good friends about this. then i noticed, they were all gone. i was filled with sadness and regret and longing. i thought, i must tell my family about this. but they were gone as well. i missed them, and i remembered all the warm times, and the times they cared for me when i needed them. and i spited myself for all those times when i was too selfish to care for them when they needed me, to do small but loving things for them when they so obviously were reaching out to me, in their soft, noninvasive way, the way they did it that i knew and recognized. i thought of my parents, who i know so well, who i know by the sounds of their footsteps on the hallway and how they close the bathroom door, and how i could not tell them this. but i bit my lip and said, i must explore this new part on my own. it is what must be done, and i must do this alone because i am alone.

so i went. i was afraid. but i knew i would not be hurt, i knew i would be safe. it took weeks to explore, but i was thorough and careful. i took notes, drew a map and kept careful files. i said, i must bring order to this place where there is no order. we fear only what we do not know, so i must know this thing, this place. when i was younger, i looked to others to help me think through my problems, to get a general opinion on matters. now i did not need others to do this. i was very proud of myself.

but i was still scared. so i began to speak. i learned to say words i had never said before, words that sounded strange and harsh, and words that meant things i did not want them to mean. i spoke, but then i began to think, am i speaking too much? does this make others uncomfortable? it seemed to. they brought their own interpretations and expectations to my words, and i did not like that. it was as if all along i had been saying "AAAA" and one day i said "ABAA?," and the world stared at me confused, and said, what? oh no. no, you meant "AAAA." so i just went back to saying "AAAA." i stuck to the script. i became very small and unintrusive, so others would tell me about their lives, and i would ask appropriate questions at appropriate times and with appropriate inflections and facial movements. and i think they forgot i ever said "ABAA," or maybe they wanted to forget i said it, or maybe they thought that is what i wanted. i became awash with other people's concerns and lives, and i thought, this is right, this is appropriate. i went back and explored my new space by myself again.

i thought about god, briefly, and what it meant that he had given me this new part, or if i even believed he had done so. was it a test, was it a sign, was it part of his plan? i realized it was best that i was a lone explorer there, because it was part of me, and it was something that no one else could ever experience in the exact way. so it must be done alone, ultimately.

i was not wholly alone. one day i looked down and there was a hand there, in mine. and i appreciated it, and i loved it. but i looked at it, and i saw it was afraid too, and it knew less about my territory than i. so in the daytime i explored alone, and at night, i came back and it fed me sausages and cheeseburgers and root beer, and spaghetti-os, if i asked for them. and i was happy, because i knew i needed this nourishment in order to have the strength for the next day's explorations. but i knew these expeditions would always be alone.

it is not so easy to be brave. to explore new parts of yourself alone. to say words you have never said before that mean things you don't want them to mean. but it just must be done.