Another essay of sorts I had in my Writing folder.

She wonders what it would be like. She thinks now how odd of her it was that she never really did before. Maybe it's because there never was a before. Not really, anyway. Not if she's honest with herself- and that she can be, even when she can't be with anyone else. When... anyone else... can't be with her. She wonders if they are to themselves. For the most part, she doubts it. Once you become that good at hiding the truths that will cut you, they don't even reach you anymore. She almost envies that, the ability to rewrite history, to change time in your own mind so that you feel no guilt, no tug, no obligation. She supposes she's done it, a little, at times. Changed things around, rearranged some words, some meanings, to suit the way she sees the past. Maybe that pulls her through when she looks back to the time that never really was before.

The wondering is what makes it hard, now. She sees pieces these days, of the people they once were, and it tugs at her in ways she wishes, almost more than anything, that it didn't. It stabilizes her and pushes her off balance at the same time. She smiles, thinking how little sense that makes, and then smiles a little wider. Fits right in then.

It comes out of nowhere these days, and hits her like a punch in the stomach. She doesn't know what to do with it, honestly. It leaves her helpless in a way that next to nothing could, and the emotion that comes from knowing that is almost unbearable to her. That's her pride making a loud protest, and she welcomes its voice- it's still there, and that's one for the home team.

She can't explain it, she doesn't know how to rationalize. That's just it, the long and short of it. It's a mixed bag unlike no other and one that has built her up and torn her apart in more ways than anything else ever will in her life. Therein lies the rub, after all- it's her life. It's her entire world, everything she knows, all she has built. It's hers, and yet.... it isn't. Not really. But nothing ever is completely yours- you build lives, with people. Houses become homes, you becomes we, and time marches on. Nothing is ever completely yours- parents, siblings, children... in the beginning, someone makes room for you. As time goes on, you make room for others.

There's a part of her that embraces that, loves the idea of it, of being so open with her heart. It's words that change it all. It all comes down to words. People say actions speak louder. Sometimes they do. But words... most powerful weapon we could ever hold in our arsenal. Spoken, written... anger, shame, love, hate.. it all comes out in words. Truth comes out in words.

She knows that isn't so, not all the time. She's spun tales with the best of them, to save face, to cover ass, to tell a story. It's what we do, isn't it? What is fiction if not a little reality and a little fantasy? We dream, we lie, we write, we create. But in almost all of it, there's something real. That's the part that stands out, that draws you in- it's all in the tone, be it spoken or written, fact or fiction. You recognize tone, you relate. You've been there, felt that, known that. That's what tugs at you.

She doesn't know what to do with it, honestly. She waits patiently for a moment, for the cloud to pass. She pushes, she pulls... she opens, she closes. She vents, she rages, she tells you. She tells you, in a thousand ways, and you see..but not really. Too much tug, obligation.

She pushes, she pulls. She opens, she closes. She vents and she rages. And then she writes it down.