The Only Way Out Is Through.

Statistics comfort me today and worry the rest of the household.

A play is waiting to be written about us all and it will not end in resolution but in a curtain and people like me will like it. There is the old woman; too buried, too far beyond repair, too cloudy and devastated. Too toxic to touch or feel sorry for most of the time. The most interesting, shocking. There is the man she has broken and keeps. He has his books – they are eveywhere. There is boy, silently hating himself and everything he creates well after puberty has taken hormones out of hostage. There is the girl, me. Just trying to keep a straight face until the situation relents.

It would be a bad play if I was the one to write it.

I realize that my opinions of the world take courage to have. They take knowledge to defend. I feel outnumbered. But this is waking up.

And if he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to.

I have passed the point where I have to hear, "I think so too".