I’m still awake.
The sun is well up, we’re slowing stealing the light from across the water, too imperceptible for the unaided human eye. Hindsight, however, can tell you what happens next. I’m bloody tired, my friends, bloody tired and feeling grounded in being lost. I have some strange assumptions, like trusting people is not a bad thing, nor is telling the truth. Everything we know should be brought to bear, all the stories seen for what they are. Divinations and mysteries shown for wonders, but also for frauds. We are predictable, we the people. We the people who demand a revolution while forgetting that means we have to do something, communicate with the rest of the world what we really desire and intend. If such assumptions were more common, perhaps my life would have been happier, would have not been such a trial. Hanged from the neck until dead, days like the kerchief they would place upon the judge’s head. Deeply aggravating, for my need to minimize myself has been shot down. It’s not a reclamation, but perhaps an awakening.
Matthew has been false in every direction. With pooled information, we are willing to believe that he is married, yes, that he worked at VanCity, yes, but nothing much else. Everything we have to say matches in disparity. Lines upon lines, whole paragraphs of identical promises, identical reasonings, excuses. This has cemented things for me, hopefully for us. Us implying my voice raised with other women. There is a bloody trail of us torn across two continents. I see no reason for silence.