And it makes a case then, for being alone. It makes a case.
She makes a case, the girl does, as she screams into her cellphone on the corner of De Maisonneuve and Guy, spitting and swearing, cursing and crying. The male passersby chuckle, thinking 'glad it's not me,' and the women glance upwards shyly, because we all know we've been there.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she packs her things into boxes, forced to start over, to make a new beginning, again, only this time, it doesn't feel new. It feels tired and forced, messy and in shambles.
She makes a case, then, the girl, who rummages for phone numbers and sifts through errant pieces of paper, who checks e-mails and msn's and all the other voyeuristic technological mediums of our generation. She makes a case, because she's right. Of course, she is right.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she redecorates her house, as she cuts her hair. As she treats herself to measured slices of chocolate truffle cake and walks in the Arboretum. She makes a case, as she gets a library membership, a gym membership, an art club membership, as she sections off her time into manageable compartments, filling up the days, the hours, the weeks and the life not lead.
You make a case then, for yourself, you do, as the hurt rolls in, as it rolls over you, and you think, 'welcome in, old friend, welcome in again.'
But the question remains of when it will end, and as the fog slowly becomes replaced by a daunting clarity, that it will only end when you make a choice, when your case, is won.
3 comments:
Who is the jury? Am I? Are you? Is this even a realm for judgment...Maybe it's the only one...
But is the case ever won? What are the rewards?
I love your writing. This description is so... accurate. So poignant.
What comes to mind, filtering out of this woman's fragility, is her ultimate solidity.
Like a rock in the middle of a hurricane, thrown around, displaced, but never destroyed. Eventually touching the ground, until... well, until the next time.
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