I could write a dozen letters; expressing the hurt or disdain but in them I would find no peace, just solitude. My mind transcribing the words that I can’t speak aloud. How we were two characters playing out a short chapter in my life, a juxtaposition of sorts. It seems as though its a revolving theme of living, one chapter breaks to another. In each one there is a distinct moral to the story, a collection of shorts thrown into a novel unedited. A sloppy draft that by the end hopefully has a purpose.

They say we live and we learn but so much of the time it seems that we repeat history. Stuck in the narrative that we provided ourselves in the early chapters of our unfinished stories. That narrative only as honest as we allow. Mine far more so than many I’ve encountered, the harshness of the words paint a picture of the harsh landscape they represent. Minefields abound. I’ve crumpled the paper many times to try to rewrite them ;but no matter the page it finds itself attached to my book.

I’m left to ponder the middle as I’ve not neared the end…what challenges will face the protagonist in my tale of love and heartache, success and failure? Just how many more supporting characters will find themselves stuck in this whirlwind before it is done? The one thought being the end of the story…the freedom that the protagonist experiences when the tasks have been completed.


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