Living with Yourself

I've been thinking about her this week. Well, thinking about him, and putting myself in his place, in which case I would be thinking about her. What's she like? Like me. Exactly like me. Exactly like me, but better. What would that be like? If she knew everything I knew and had experienced everything I experienced except then somehow ... gotten over some things? Leapt gracefully (gazellelike?) over them, left the shards and tatters behind, not looked back. Or learned helpful lessons from other things, things I blew past too quickly to notice that I could have internalized, cherished, nourished myself with. She'd be nourished. I'm convinced that she is better emotionally, which is funny because most of my conscious self-improvement campaigns involve me being better physically. But for me this is an effort; for her it would be effortless. She would have naturally perfect vision, perfect hearing; nobody loves knowing what I think I saw and what I think I heard, like listening to someone's dreams, filled with unspecified meaning. She would actually enjoy exercise, be flexible, have firmer muscles, greater endurance. Once a man who was dating a better version of me was drunk at a party and held me not-quite briefly, his lips at my ear exclaimed in wonder "You're so soft, so soft" and it sounded good but he'd left me for her and I therefore think the better version of me is hard. She would only say out loud the things she was going to do and then she would do them. She would remember what people said, as I do, and she would remember to water the plants, pay the bills, empty the trash, put away the laundry. She would write letters on paper because they're worth more, and her hands wouldn't cramp after just one, because she'd be in the habit. She would read books instead of the news, because she would know that the news only makes her sad. She'd welcome the seasons as they arrive instead of going into them kicking and screaming, loving them only as they are fading, wasting half of one mourning the loss of the last. She would cook better, but she would eat less because she wouldn't use food as a substitute for affection. She would know how to do things because she wouldn't waste time being angry that she couldn't already; she'd note the ignorance and rectify it. She would have already written this. She would be exactly like me, except more like what you want. She would be so done with pleasing you.