Day Eighty-Three: 03/24/2021

 03/24/2021

7:38 a.m.

    If anyone's story begins in one book, it's not mine.  My story begins within the pages of many books, written and unwritten, foreign and domestic.  My story is told in words but begins with and lives in ideas.  My story is like the rain, falling indiscriminately upon all surfaces, in any place on earth water might penetrate.  My story is suffocating me, strangling me, owning me and estranging me.  My story is begging to be written, and so I've given it a pen.

    Today's story begins on a train.  Far be it from me to start at the actual beginning.  But can you ever pinpoint the beginning?  All I know is right now, this morning, I am on a train.  The train feels lonely, even it its purpose-driven state.  I listen as it calls out the stations, not knowing whether anyone is even listening.  How do you ride the train?  Listening intently for your stop?  Or do you ride with eyes closed, counting the open and closing of the doors until your time to disembark?

    I carry my umbrella, to ward off the rain as I harden my heart, to ward off the pain.  But just as a swift wind or passing car can render my umbrella useless, so might a kind word or a warm embrace soften my battle-worn heart.  Battle-worn, battle-torn - I can picture the moment our love became a battleground.  And there I was so unprepared for your "Art of War" mentality.  There I was treasuring the Art of Life, oblivious to your sneak attacks and advanced weaponry.  Taking for granted the moment I was categorized as an enemy to be kept closer.  Blinding myself with love and naivete while you strategized to always be two steps ahead of an opponent you never had, in war waging only in your head.

    To this day, my heart bleeds broken promises all over the train car while bitter tears rain down, eluding the umbrella of my logical mind.  I take a calming breath, or three, wipe the tears that I may see, and step off the train into my world, safe from yours.  For now.