She — c. early December 2018, hadn’t written in a while and didn’t for a long while after
She. She drips, her full form tastes sweet. Like honey. Her advent is the arrival. Afresh is the chapter that she has awoken from, for she is like everything you have never known. Something else. Her words are carried from far lands, a land, a land that knows not of evils, of spite, of hate. Those terrible, terrible things. Of the troublous wringing of hands, this dark abyss without a star because even she was so weighted by all that was beneath her.
This land is the same as hers. It knows love, it knows beauty, it knows joy. But it is years wiser than hers. It knows so much more, it is fluent in hate, well versed in spite, and rivers of evil flow through its veins, the very pith of being alive.
How painful being beautiful must be? People despise it, people step on it, and you lose it. Like the tears fall through those hands you wring. Fast. That’s the beauty of losing beauty; it is simple, really. In one instant, it is lost.
She. She does not belong in this land. This land will do far more wrong to her than she will. It pains her, it hurts her, it befuddles her. She does not understand. What is the point in living in a land like this? She asks herself, and then. How do I go back? I want to go back. I will never, with any amount of will, at any rate, inhabit this place. Inhabit, surely that’s easy enough, surely? We do it subconsciously from the moment we bid farewell to the womb, to the moment we have our last musings. To her, inhabiting a place is so far, far more than mere immediate presence, like everything else, inhabiting a place needs emotional and spiritual connection and everything in between. A need, not a want, the way everyone wants to breathe air.
The thing about the wardrobe is once you walk through it, inadvertently, you will have left a place you will only want to forget. It is irrevocable. There is no return, and there never will be.
There was another land left for her.
She tried like she always had from the days she was on her fours like she always thought she would. But the memories weighed her, like the star she was, and there was nothing she could do to change that. As much as she had always promised herself she would never give up on anything, she found herself a promise-breaker. To her, her life had no meaning left, her life was bare, empty, like the trees in winter, waiting for a summer that she knew would never come. It was just beautiful, terrifying pain. And the thing that shocked her the most was the fact that she began to stop feeling it, because no matter how large she tried to spin a web of reason, it all boiled down to one inevitable truth — the pain was never-ending. The pain was the web that was inescapable.
The unforgivable. The pain and knives at her heart inflicted by the toxicity of the land she was in went on. And on. And on. And one day, one glorious, beautiful day, like a weight on her heart, it left. Irrevocable.
