These currents are strong, but they are only visible on the surface in eddies and swirls. And moreso in the day than the night. It’s 1 a.m.
I’m driving her back home, out of town. The dashboard lights. The roar of the wind through open windows. The smell of night in the fields: cool, damp.
She says, "I’m sorry," and it sounds sincere, like true regret in her voice.
A long time, miles later:
"I’m sorry about this afternoon. This is all so hard, and I’m not very good at it, and I don’t know how to get better. I have so many feelings right now - happiness about seeing you, sadness about everything else, disappointment, anxiety. I don’t know what word to use..."
We use words as shorthand, sometimes, and end up talking more about them than our feelings. The what more than the why, and never mind the how. We get further and further from ourselves and each other, and that’s when the stories we tell ourselves in order to live begin to make even less sense.
No comments:
Post a Comment