There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book. ~ Marcel Proust

[Reading Time: 2 - 2 minutes]

While going through a box the other day I happened upon a few pieces of paper (two are dated 2001, so I will assume the third was written the same year). One had lyrics to the song Hanging By A Moment by Lifehouse, one was a strange dream I had, and the other was the following:

««««««««««««««««««

His words leapt through the air, hissing of fire, lashing at her like a whip. Cutting her; breaking her. She stood there trying to fight it off. Her heart stung for a moment. Without warning the whip he wielded cut her again and again. There was no way to avoidance. She gave in. Peacefully she drifted above, watching as her heart split with each new crack of his whip. She thought this flight would free her of the pain. But there was still an aching within her.

The rains began to fall and her battered self was soon bathed in the fresh salt water of her own tears. Tears for a pain she could not stop, could not control. She wept in solitude as to not stir that vengeful whip. And without even the slightest word, he had managed to cut her heart more deeply than before. For the distance he kept hurt more than any lashing of the words he could say.

As time dragged on, the tears would come and go. She took comfort in that soon numbness would take over and the pain of the lashing would be no more. Time would serve its purpose and his words, such as these, would have little meaning.