The Story of Who She Is

 Once upon a time, in a place quite a lot like this, where things don’t really ever work the way planned and disappointment is considered as ordinary and as common as grass on the ground, there was a woman.  Or maybe she was a girl. Anyway, either way, she was. And though, that she was was most definitely, though somewhat difficulty, evident, what exactly it was that she was was not. And though no one could quite tell what it was that she was, it was painfully obvious what she was not. And what she was not, was a lot.  See, she wasn’t nice. But she wasn’t mean. She wasn’t loud. But she wasn’t quiet. She didn’t care. But she didn’t not.  She wasn’t proud. But she wasn’t meek. She wasn’t good. But she wasn’t bad. See, what she was was nothing. What she was was what happens when you add a negative four to a positive one. What happens when you put the same amount of weight on both sides of the scale.  That haze between awake and asleep. She was indifference. She was neutral. She was nothing. And the thing about her gray, was that it wasn’t white, but it wasn’t black. And because she was so perfectly in-between, neither side claimed her. She was alone. But one day, in mid fall, when what was thriving had just started to die, and when nothing was quite certain of what it was or what it wasn’t going to be when the day was finished, she met someone. At first, she didn’t really like him. She didn’t trust him at all. She had no reason too. She believed him to be someone to be avoided—a kind of twisted web of angry sarcasm and heartfelt bitterness. A breathing lie. The kind that only exists because it was so unwanted that it could do nothing but be as hurtful as possible to everyone else. But she didn’t mind. He didn’t effect her any. At least not at first. But the more she talked to him, and the more she saw him, the less she understood. The twisted web of angry sarcasm and heartfelt bitterness started to disintegrate—Fraying at the edges and separating from each other. The thick lines of deception and deceit that she had so clearly seen in the beginning, started to blur, becoming melted and messy stripes of a kind of confusing compassion. But then, occasionally, the web would reform, quickly and quietly the stripes would gain back their depth and width and horrid height. But again, just as suddenly, they would begin to fade again. She no longer understood. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. And she started to feel things. Strange things. When he would talk to her their conversations would be different. Sometimes they were kind and caring, and others they were angry and harsh. And this contrast, this strange relationship between hard and soft, this daily distinction of good and bad—right and wrong—yes and no—love and hate, this jerking back and forth between two completely opposites sides of the line, began to do something to her. She began to see things. Definite things. All of the sudden she started to separate the white inside of herself from the black. Her gray began to divide itself. It was terrifying. All of the sudden things fell into place. All of the sudden she was on a side.  Things she didn’t even know she believed in became almost unexplainably dear to her. And things she had been so heartbroken over become so obviously unimportant. All of the sudden, there was no more haze. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was something. And even though that something was something that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with, as a matter of fact she hated most of what she saw about herself, the point was that she saw it to begin with. And for some reason, it was because of him. She didn’t know if she hated him or loved him for it, which is most likely because she had to be indecisive about something, and seeing most of her indecisiveness had just been stripped from her being, this was the most convenient thing to be indecisive about, but, whatever the reason for her indecisiveness, the decisive part was most definitely his fault. And for that, she is glad he is her friend.  And now, she’s still pretty used to being neutral about most everything, and so, it’s still an adventure to actually make a decision, but she makes them. However unwillingly or covertly, she makes them. And she feels things. Certain things. Definite things. And she is. And even though what exactly it is that she is is still not exactly for sure, right now, the fact that she is is enough.

The End.