Forced reflections

Photograph: Milada Vigerova at and

It’s just that if I were to sit there for a long enough time, it would all start to come out. The truths. The tears. The dreams. The desires. The things that I want to start doing. The things that I don’t want to do anymore. The people I don’t want to meet anymore. The places I don’t want to visit anymore. The places I do want to visit. But it takes a special form of strength to tell yourself all this and an even higher form of courage to take it all in. It takes being willfully trapped alone in your car, in a parking lot, while the rain pours outside. It takes not taking any phone calls and turning off that radio. It takes taking a breather before starting my drive to the next routine stop: home. Home, where it all goes to the back burner. Where the puppy is who you start to bounce with. Where the readily served dinner, followed by tea, awaits you. Where you just go to bed when you don’t feel like doing any chores and then just go to sleep the moment you hit your bed. And that all sits, accumulates, until it spills over and you have to trap yourself alone all over again.

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