When it came, she was stumbling. Stumbling and running, and facing in the wrong direction. She had to stop and turn around, startled and squinting, immediately knowing that this was it.
It never goes further than this. This story always stops before it starts, ends before the better thing happens. It goes this way because I don't know. I don't know, in these moments of tranquil melancholy what's happening next. I only know that this girl is me. Waiting, and running, and stumbling and wanting to know the truth but scared of what it might say.
I don't know who I am. That is a truth.
I don't know where I am going. That is another.
There are many things I know to be true. I don't know how to piece them all together.
From days when I wrote long letters over tear-stained papers, bent over, an arm shielding my heart and smudging my ink. With me on one side and all the world on the other. To these days when I stumble along, and don't know that I stumble. When I run and don't know that I run. When I doubt myself and want to hide myself when I get sidelong glances in the hall.
Its not better to hide, though it feels safer that way. It's not better to not try, though the trying may break us down and leave us broken. It's not ok to stay where you are. It's not ok to be content with this you that you are now. You need to look for the better thing.
It's coming, if you keep walking. It's going to be ok.