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Almost a decade ago and not quite by chance, I stumbled across a recording destined to play a heavy role in my life.

One song served as a lead in, a truncated version of the one I sought, necessitating purchase of the unabridged version elsewhere, later.  Yet I knew not at the time, and in this one instance, ignorance of version proved a blessing.  On first play, Poem by Delerium sent shivers through my body, perhaps calibrating me to it.  Vocals and instrumentation created intricacy and nuance, a blank field within one could design an environment suited to their life.

I did.

Even years later old elements called for my attention, sparking new imaginings.  Five years ago, I commuted an hour to work, a forty-six mile drive each way through a rural and semi-rural swath of the state, and it afforded time for me to explore and create.  Myth jumped out of the stereo and dragged me into a world I’d escaped with but a thread of life left, just enough to reconstitute.

Francesca Longrigg wrote the lyrics, performed by Joanna Stevens.

It’s a weird game
I’m lonely without skin
No end to begin and only
Your mind to hide in
I nudge life
Like an unborn child. a dream
Inside but now I live behind your eyes
I’m uninvited. and I’m only
A memory that comes through

I’m living in your dreams
I’m where you cannot be
I’m way out of your reach

I’m living in your dreams
I’m where you cannot see
Is it you or is it me?

I can’t protect what you can’t forget
But now I live behind your eyes
You recognize me as only a memory
That comes through

I’m living in your dreams
I’m where you cannot go
Beyond everything you know
I’m living in your dreams
You won’t find me anywhere
I’ve vanished in the air

Sometimes I’m a bit slow on the draw, but then I excuse my obliviousness to the sum total of Poem, allowing for endless variants of interpretation.  When Myth finally exploded in my head, I realised Francesca’s lyrics described my pre-transition existence in an uncanny way, capturing the feel of wrong body existence.

Blocked and sectioned off by glass, an inner Berlin wall, allowed sight of my whole self but stood near impossible to shatter.  It blocked, it teased, it tormented.  So many times my hands palmed the mental glass, the other half of me mirroring my action; glass in between, unable to connect.

In 2000, for the first time and for less than a second, the wall disappeared, and that smidgeon of time generated the most intense experience of my life, beyond orgasmic.  Two sides, one being; for the first time, it felt possible.  I’ll not delve into the proximate trigger, at least not today, but it expanded my mental reach or perhaps my need to be whole, in incalculable ways.  Myth captures it all, the before, the wall, the exasperation, the despair.

Thank goodness, this lies to the past.