The season winds to a close, candycane stripes and twinkling lights suddenly feeling out of place, and still we have months left until spring. You know the great darkness lies ahead, but you turn the page of your calendar and find it wiped clean, all the creases ironed out. Here we go, you think through years of cynical buildup, it's hard to see the forest for the trees, it's hard to see the clearing for all the evidence against its existence. I lie in bed for hours, trying to remember how to read, how to disappear, how to be silent, but the years have taken the ease from me. One day when we come out of this we will not understand all the hurt it's caused us.
The point is not to escape unscathed.
It's to see the hurt,
and choose to go on despite it.
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