Wonder And Yet Know

- occurred September 25, 2007 -
- written February 24, 2008 -

She is sitting at her desk; it's late, nearly midnight. The only light in the entire house is the one coming from her computer screen. Just days ago she discovered a lie. Now she has steeled her heart and made a decision. She will confront…deal…and move past…it…him. As she writes the letter, she doesn't think of how this will be the last letter to ever pass between them. All that she can think about is how much it hurts being in the place she is in now. All she can think about is how angry she is that he would bring her to this place. As she writes the letter, she doesn't think about how he is in her every breathe. In her moment of white hot pain mixed with fiery anger, she writes the letter that will lead to the discussion which will lead to the end. And she mistakenly believes that she will be able to live after this. Carefully, methodically, she writes the very same letter she wrote while she was awake. She is completely oblivious to the happenings around her. Oblivious to how, as she continues to type, the words are slowly slithering down off of her computer screen and as they reach the floor they morph into a snake. The snake is black and white, just as the words are on her computer screen. Ever so slowly, the snake slithers up and around her, hissing occasionally as if in pain. Completely oblivious to being encompassed by this snake, she continues to write her letter. The snake is squeezing the breathe out of her, as snakes do with their prey to take their lives before swallowing them whole. But she can't feel anything. She can't feel the pressure or strength of the snake, she can't feel her breathe or her life leaving her; it is leaving her. She can only continue with her letter.

When she finally wakes in the morning, she will wonder and yet know what this dream means. But she will take it and shuffle it away somewhere inside of her. She has already sent the letter. She can't…won't…take it back. Nothing can be done to fix this.