We live in a small world - cliche, yes, but true.
And what a predicament that puts me in.
I guess I have to accept that there will ALWAYS be something and someone (who probably thinks I'm an asshole to boot) who will remind me of S. I've taken to calling her that - S - which means nothing significant really; its just a way - one of many - that I have taken upon myself to practice so I can forget. So that S, and every memory, picture, and image of her is reduced to words - signs and symbols - a letter, things without meaning. For meanings elicit pain, and I' d like a break from that, thank you very much.
Yes, yes, I know, I'll get there, eventually - more than one person's told me that - and I know I'm quite-a-ways there. Of course, there are days when I plod around like the tortoise in the race or scamper around arrogantly like the rabbit. They both get to the finish line at the end. But you see, it's really not the finish line that matters, its the getting there - the race, if you will - the effort of putting one foot in front of the other, of clawing your way through brambles, falling down into unseen holes and ditches, tripping over bumps in the road, and the running through clearings that make the difference. Sometimes you stare and marvel at the view, or sometimes you crouch under a tree, afraid of the sounds and the creepy-crawley things that lurk about in the dark.
I'll get there, I know. It's the travelling that hurts.