(no subject)
Time passes in her periphery, vaguely realized like REM dreams and reflections in foggy mirrors and those first few days after a heartbreak. It's something so many overlook in favor of what they think are even bigger, more important things: pain and atrophy, loss of dignity and a sense of uselessness, anger and frustration and redemption there from (never let anyone tell you that that isn't a constant, cyclical journey, an ebb and tide).
Maybe they understand it on a broader spectrum, how we're so easily able to lose track, as if what little time we're given isn't just the most important thing in this world (next to love, of course). People can space out, five or ten minutes at a time, half an hour, a day or a weekend, but then they can snap out of it, and get out of it, and make up for it all in the next stretch of time.
She has years to make up, and they don't come cheap.
On bad days, she's just tired of it being the largest part of who she is, of what she'll always be. On good days, it's much easier to accept. Then, it isn't too difficult to pretend she has a choice in the matter, because there are things she can do, things she does (all she does), that many wish they had the time to do, too.
But now there's a part of her that isn't part of her.
She can feel her skin stretch across it with each breath, during every move she makes. She can see it through thin t-shirts and peeking out from buttoned flannels, and even though she knows that's really only because she's so very aware of it, it doesn't stop her from walking around sometimes with her hand over her chest.
(She says it's because it's still sore, but that's only half the truth.)
In the grander scheme of things, it really means very little; she has an offshore drilling rig buried in her chest, that's all. It's a length of tube and a docking platform, and her arms and all their worn out veins are grateful to have it aboard. But, it's another reminder, and when she already has so many, it feels a little mean. Her body is picking on her, and it's as juvenile as the temper tantrum she still wants to throw at times.
She thinks that's probably the wrong way to go about handling this.
Maybe they understand it on a broader spectrum, how we're so easily able to lose track, as if what little time we're given isn't just the most important thing in this world (next to love, of course). People can space out, five or ten minutes at a time, half an hour, a day or a weekend, but then they can snap out of it, and get out of it, and make up for it all in the next stretch of time.
She has years to make up, and they don't come cheap.
On bad days, she's just tired of it being the largest part of who she is, of what she'll always be. On good days, it's much easier to accept. Then, it isn't too difficult to pretend she has a choice in the matter, because there are things she can do, things she does (all she does), that many wish they had the time to do, too.
But now there's a part of her that isn't part of her.
She can feel her skin stretch across it with each breath, during every move she makes. She can see it through thin t-shirts and peeking out from buttoned flannels, and even though she knows that's really only because she's so very aware of it, it doesn't stop her from walking around sometimes with her hand over her chest.
(She says it's because it's still sore, but that's only half the truth.)
In the grander scheme of things, it really means very little; she has an offshore drilling rig buried in her chest, that's all. It's a length of tube and a docking platform, and her arms and all their worn out veins are grateful to have it aboard. But, it's another reminder, and when she already has so many, it feels a little mean. Her body is picking on her, and it's as juvenile as the temper tantrum she still wants to throw at times.
She thinks that's probably the wrong way to go about handling this.