(no subject)
There is so much that is going on in my head that I can't sort out into coherent ideas. So crammed full of things I want to say that they cannot organize themselves into letters to make up words to make up meaning. But this overrides them all: my knowledge that I am being dramatic. And I don't know why. I don't know why this matters. Why the way that it all fell apart is important. Shouldn't the fact that it did fall apart be the important thing? But it's not. It's just the way he said things; but I've always known that he's not always articulate. I should have expected it.
I am always going to wonder. I will always miss him.
I am no longer Penelope; you won't let me. Because I'm different than the epic. In the epic it is Odysseus who leaves and never returns. It's his fate. But it's not mine. I'm coming back. Why don't you understand that?
I am always going to wonder. I will always miss him.
I am no longer Penelope; you won't let me. Because I'm different than the epic. In the epic it is Odysseus who leaves and never returns. It's his fate. But it's not mine. I'm coming back. Why don't you understand that?