As I tidy up the remains of my sister’s stay, I feel this bizarrely cold and empty feeling. It’s not really a bad feeling, which is what leads me to use the word bizarre, as cold and empty kinda describes something tragic. Maybe it is and I am processing it through these visual blues and grays rather than with physical dissonance or outrage. There is evidence of my recent distractions everywhere in the form of sandy floors, empty boxes once containing treats scattered about the place, scattered family photos, take-out containers, and a variety of leftover crafts. Loose ends, because we are always doing things up to the last day, and, well, I guess things always feel a little unfinished.
I don’t think I try to do bad, and something about that makes me good, but I have done terrible things in my life. Maybe I could argue I did those things to survive, but there really is no excuse for the chaotic agony for which I am responsible.
I chose to live though the lens that I am not an evil person. I am comforted when my family wants to be around me, particularly my sisters. Have they not seen my true heart?
It is cruel to contemplate one’s own demons, and it might be the only way to sovereignty, or some kind of personal justice that cannot be reflected in the outside world. If you can live with your true self, what can’t you live with? Am I a beast for continuing to try to live a normal life, or does it make me good, or is it just plain normal, because everyone has to cope with their similar actions?
I come across a written fortune, once stuffed inside a crunchy yellow cookie. It reads:
When you’re finished changing, you’re finished.
I’m trying to think of a more dramatic phrase than, “You’re finished.” and in this mind, I simply cannot.
??
Written by Randa 