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There is the kind of light that makes me reflexively bring my hand to my eyes and temporarily blinds me. It’s the light of December snow on a surprisingly sunny day or the sharp edge of a kitchen knife blade held up to the fluorescent kitchen light as I decide where to make the first cut. This light, to me, is always masculine. It is the light of the sun that penetrates and probes places that I’ve kept hidden from others, sometimes even from myself. Light that expects me to reveal what I’ve chosen not to. Yet there also exists the darkness that pulls me down in billowy waves—comforting and familiar-- yet in many ways terrifying.

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