She arrives at the outdoor bar with that gait she has, always a little sideways, always like her body is trying to pull her in different directions and she cannot commit to just the one ahead. It feels like coming home. A month worth of unspoken secrets, we stumble over ourselves to fit as many of them into the limited space we have. I tell her, a little too loudly for the quiet street to absorb, how I realized the hollowness of my endeavors, how I've spent a whole life shielding myself from pain by attempting to prove nothing at all. How sometimes the Universe shines on me and I take what it offers, but I never climb into the sky on my own to get what could be mine.
The days are endless spirals now, are hard-won steps to breach the surface and then easy tumbles to the depths again, how do we spend so much time just trying to survive. You wonder what the year is meant to prove to you. But perhaps those are the wrong questions again.
It's entirely possible to survive
without living, after
all
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