A post in which I use a tired metaphor because my brain is tired and I can’t really think of anything else.
If I were a geologist, I would have seen the earthquake coming. Unless it’s one of those disaster movies (why do I love them so much?!) where the fancy ass scientists don’t recognize the warning signs and only the nerdy crazies know what’s coming but nobody listens to them. In that case, someone would have noticed, but I digress.
I should have. (Shit. Does that make me the obtuse and narcissistic scientist? Let’s pretend no.)
I barely got out in time. I am, if we’re sticking with this metaphor, still driving as the ground crumbles behind my back tires. But we all know that I will make it. You all know that that dusty truck ALWAYS drives toward the rainbow.
But now I recognize pieces of my life are beginning to settle into old and new places.
I am consumed with hope simply because it has been so long.
It’s itching at my clavicles and my heels. It was there all along.
This is new. Before, I drove and sobbed and contemplated and reckoned carefully. I am sure I am not finished driving and sobbing and contemplating, but it is no longer ALL.
And the aftershocks are coming, I know. I am going to do just what I always want my characters to do: keep my running shoes on, pack water, look up.
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