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Jul. 19th, 2007 12:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
all_strange_wondersOne learns to live around heart-wounds.
To walk gently and quietly in the spaces of one's own mind until the pain is more like an old friend than anything else.
To know what will remind you and break open the wounds afresh, and to bump gently against the pain and deflect it, or to open one's arms to it rather than resist, that it will wash over and through you and be past.
Still, the loss is there, part of the furniture of your mind. It may someday move out of the front parlor and into the attic- but it stays with you.
A year is both to long, and not nearly enough time at all.
I wait. I don't know what I want more, the impossible or merely the distance time gives.
To walk gently and quietly in the spaces of one's own mind until the pain is more like an old friend than anything else.
To know what will remind you and break open the wounds afresh, and to bump gently against the pain and deflect it, or to open one's arms to it rather than resist, that it will wash over and through you and be past.
Still, the loss is there, part of the furniture of your mind. It may someday move out of the front parlor and into the attic- but it stays with you.
A year is both to long, and not nearly enough time at all.
I wait. I don't know what I want more, the impossible or merely the distance time gives.
