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I picked you apart, and I'm sorry.

Short story By: Josephine Ann
Flash fiction


Early mornings bring questions, but nothing really brings answers.


Submitted:Sep 3, 2007    Reads: 111    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


I am isolated. I am a speck of light in a dark room; the computer throws shadows on my face. I know that I need to write, but I haven't a clue what I'm supposed to say. I never really know. I am never really inspired, only lonely and lost, and the things I write push me on to say whatever is in my heart that my mind doesn't understand. I put on an old cd because farmiliarity makes me boring and redundant, and I press keys until they make words. These are the things that I feel in my soul.

I should have let you know. I should have sent you those letters when I had the chance. I should have taken the risks that were presented to me, but I lost time and faith and all of the things that make people do things that matter. So now I search aimlessly for you in crowds at the mall and school, even though I know you're across the country with your sometimes-girlfriend, making movies and trying to define beauty. I know absence makes the heart grow fonder, and while you were away I have forgiven you of your self-centerdness, your elitism, your misplaced idealism. You have not forgiven me, you have forgotten me. I wonder what things would be like if that were not so.

I wonder about the people I have loved and what it has done to me as a person. None of them are my One and Only, none of them absolute, but all of them are one of a kind. I think of how I treated those people- the things I wrote, about them and to them- and I see how I have changed. I don't know what it means to look back on it, to put it out on OpenDiary or LiveJournal or wherever this will end up, but I beg forgiveness in advance.

There are things inside of me that can be loved. This is a truth that I am always trying to accept, one that makes me acknowledge that I am in some way remarkable. While I have written, the darkness has turned to light. Now I sit here in a cool room on a Monday morning, a big tshirt and short shorts and a head full of questions in a world full of answers. The world keeps on turning. My bed hair and no bra don't change the course of the world, and I don't really believe these words will either. I have realized that I am not permanent here; not in people's minds or hearts or thoughts. I am learning to be okay with the fact that I will not really live on once I am gone unless I do something of honest greatness, and the chances of that are not as high as one might think.

It is all about the particular time of things. It is about how my hair looks or how my lips move or the color of my shirt, and I am amazed at how these sorts of things can change my future. If you think they aren't changing yours, wake up and pay attention to the details. It will amaze you. All of the paths I have taken in my life- all of the choices I have made- are leading me to a final destination. I wonder if, had I made different choices, I would still end up in the same place. Does it all end the same anyway? Is there such a thing as destiny, or only the most desireable outcome? If the latter is true, have I already made the decision that makes mine impossible? They are unanswerable questions, and maybe that is some of the attraction to asking them. In most cases, I hate definitive answers. They usually mean endings. I am not good at endings.





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