It was raining. Even though it didn’t feel as if it was raining, it clearly was. It felt more like crying–sporadic, medium-sized drops that were so numerous they’d become more than a careless outburst or a wind-burnt leak. A few drops accompanied by a few more until rain began to happen all around, but not touching, me. Or maybe that was me feeling those feelings. Maybe I’d feel like this no matter the weather.

When I spoke to Mom she gave the impression that things were getting easier for her. By and large time was helping. I was relieved to hear this for her. Things are different for me. I feel as if I am steadily moving backwards, but I am certain it’s not finite because it feels like a great coiling. Or maybe it’s an uncoiling. Either way, I have faith I will be returned to the center no matter how it has moved.

When I boarded the bus yesterday it was in a different place. The stop had moved a block down. As I sat on the bus, hurtling down the same bridge towards the place I call home, I wondered if I would actually end up there. Would this new route deposit me somewhere else? And if so, who would I be once I got there?


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e lewis

I'm a bibliophile with a love of social justice theory living in the Pacific North West trying to figure life out.

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