tuckova

ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things

You are angry, and then hurt, and then angry at yourself for being
hurt. And then hurt again. This is pretty much all there is to work
with, and you are working at it whenever you are not
consciously working with anything else. You cannot tell the difference
between licking wounds and picking scabs, and you are doing both. You
spend days working, trying,
but every moment is a reproach, and each reproach is three-fold: what
you heard, what you listened to, what you keep replaying. The shadows
made by cobwebs have
an opinion about you, and they aren't impressed. This is what it comes
to. Not least because of the cobwebs, not least because of the shadows,
the dirt, the secrets and the lies.

This is what it means to
know better. It means that you get five seconds of breathing room, five
seconds of living with knowledge, and then for a moment, really only,
you forget that you know and then you are down again, spiders crawling
in your heart, and hitting yourself with your own fists because you
should have known better. Worse: because you did.

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