So this is how Penelope felt like: the endless
wait for something not quite there - the uncertain
weather, the waves on the shore bringing her gifts
of broken seashells, his voice on the wind. How
did she manage - the leaden hours, the moments
stretching taut, the echo of men out in the hall,
demanding for more wine, more meat, her hand
in marriage? Did she dampen her pillows at night,
weeping for someone who may never return? Or did she
merely count out warp and weave, threads binding
and unraveling, her tears the only thing tangible
among all these memories spilling between her fingers?
Isn't it funny, how things can always go from best to worst? I'm amazed at how the universe can move from one end to another, traversing such points of light that there isn't even time to deal with all this shit. It would be so funny if it wasn't so pathetic. Thankfully, I am well-versed in the craft of heartbreak and forgetting.
There are so many stories to tell.