late night writing.

Do they understand? Do they see the way that her eyes absorb their colors, their sounds, their essence? Do they notice the moments in between the minutes when she is there, picking up the pieces of their lives and mopping up their tears and holding fast their trembling hands? When she wakes, she is sunlight. When the day drags on, she greys at the edges and knows it is time for another new beginning. She feels she is sometimes made of new beginnings, and wonders if she will ever be content to answer to the same sun in the same way from the same place for days and days on end. Can life be lived without beginnings? Is that how we become angry, sedated ghosts of our potential? By staying? Or is that how the roots dig down into the delicious soil of life, staying put and going deeper yet, straining toward the core of the earth? She rolls over, looks at the clock, shuts her eyes again and resigns to the fact that the answers may come another day.

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