(this is a post from about a year and a half ago. it has been slightly edited down from it's original, which was posted on my old blog. sometimes it's good to compare life now to life then. so many similarities, but so, so much more experience.)
In the face of the tinted museum windows, I saw myself. I saw my
tear-stained cheeks, my disheveled hair, my wrinkled skirt. A bleak
sight.
The wind fingered
through the ruffles in my blouse, mocking my love of spring and hatred
of dissonance in my personal life.
The threads of my sanity, so weakly constructed from the start, are unraveling at an ever quickening rate. Every phone call, every disheartening piece of information brings me just a little closer to the edge.
In
the midst of these vicissitudes, on the brink of fatal attack, I
realize the only way out is through. I struggle to stay above it all,
drowning myself in the struggle against time, against hate, against
mistakes.
It's always easier when you're the one that's done
wrong. You fix what you've done, mend yourself, and move forward. But
what do you do when you're only a side note in a tragic novel of love
and loss? Your character has little affect on the protecting of the
others, and no chance at changing the plot. How do you push through?
You read the book. Until the very last page. And then, accepting the outcome, you burn it, and you move on.
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