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estdeus_innobisSunday, May 23rd
The Dormouse, late evening.
I am not sure if I love or hate this time of day. The day is done, it's quiet, and Rose sleeps peacefully in her cradle. It's the perfect time to curl up on my window seat with a cup of tea and a book. Which I have done. I have the window cracked open, and a slight breeze plays over me. I am content...
yet not. For when the night falls, and it is between the time when Rose goes down and I finally succumb to slumber, my mind races. Every nagging thought, ever doubt, every regret and 'what if' and 'could have been' comes creeping into my mind.
He was never real. But he was! How can that be? How can a person, a real living person be... and then... not?
It wasn't Him. I know that much. It wasn't my hopes that He suddenly changed, or that he would indulge me that much. Nor do I think he would tell me he loved me, even to make me miserable. No, whatever happened, Kent Whitman was real. He lived and breathed and...
and it doesn't matter, for whatever happened; passed. Then life reverted back.
It shouldn't matter anyway. So why am I mourning the loss of someone that never was?
This question and quandry just keeps circling round and round my poor brain, and I've found I've given myself a headache. With a sigh, I set the book I was not really reading aside and sip my tea. I think I've decided... I hate this time of night.
(Closed, there are brownies, see...)
The Dormouse, late evening.
I am not sure if I love or hate this time of day. The day is done, it's quiet, and Rose sleeps peacefully in her cradle. It's the perfect time to curl up on my window seat with a cup of tea and a book. Which I have done. I have the window cracked open, and a slight breeze plays over me. I am content...
yet not. For when the night falls, and it is between the time when Rose goes down and I finally succumb to slumber, my mind races. Every nagging thought, ever doubt, every regret and 'what if' and 'could have been' comes creeping into my mind.
He was never real. But he was! How can that be? How can a person, a real living person be... and then... not?
It wasn't Him. I know that much. It wasn't my hopes that He suddenly changed, or that he would indulge me that much. Nor do I think he would tell me he loved me, even to make me miserable. No, whatever happened, Kent Whitman was real. He lived and breathed and...
and it doesn't matter, for whatever happened; passed. Then life reverted back.
It shouldn't matter anyway. So why am I mourning the loss of someone that never was?
This question and quandry just keeps circling round and round my poor brain, and I've found I've given myself a headache. With a sigh, I set the book I was not really reading aside and sip my tea. I think I've decided... I hate this time of night.
(Closed, there are brownies, see...)
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