So there she sat with the task of separating her agreements, mmotivated because the attempt was something life depended on. She couldn't go on without exerting both will and want. The jumbled condition spread a haze of drunkenness over the day-to-day, dulling her will along with her direction. She had to separate it all before she could put it back. She would remove the threads, ever so carefully. Threads that were discolored and disingenuous. Threads that spoke near talk and yet lived far away. The thread of the ingrained. The culture thread, the shoulds and should nots, the past strings, the sick feeling, the sad feeling, the fear of being misunderstood, the fear of not fitting in, the fear of being tethered to the convincing, the science threads, the God reliance, the soul mated thread, the rejection thread and the abuse threads.
These dissections were momentous monotones attempted in hopes that a naked canvas would give her a second start. This separating act, was just like anything else. Once you sat down to do it, no matter how beautiful the "it" was it was still just an it. A mortal "it" accompanied by work. She felt postured and poised in the labor as she landed herself in the first familiar place of intended triumph- the bottom. A mountain at her feet.
She repositioned as she moved under the great weight of finding occurrences. The occurrences sounded like crashes as they separated. The lulls between sets of waves increased a little, giving her thin gasping gulps of fine air. Real air. Freezing and desperate- hopeless and vulnerable for the first time. And the colder and more quiet, the more clear and empty it all bleached out to be, the more her lungs could expand. The more she could exercise a will that she took on but didn't gather.
As all of the essentials lay still she saw them for what they were.
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