She goes, she goes. And if she lets go of everything, there is nothing to hold on to, and nothing to keep her from going. It makes her feel alone and free. This is what brave is.
In the morning, she lets the world creep in, slowly. Softly, the rain taps on the roof. The sun’s light gently touches the walls. It’s peaceful out there, but slowly the thoughts creep in and it’s not so quiet for long.
That’s when it is time to rise, to allow other distractions to interrupt the mind. So she packs her things. Boxes of clothes, crystals wrapped in paper and put into smaller boxes. Books meant to be read but left unopened, the tops left with a faint dusting, go back into a box from which they came. Along with journals filled with a grasping that never quite reached. Some letters written, but to a recipient never realized. Intentions.
All half trying. But too late for those things because it is time to go forward. So she compartmentalizes her life into cardboard boxes and ships it off to another life she won’t be going back to.
She is not quite a clean slate, and she doesn’t need that. Maybe a clean rag- a piece of something bigger but who knows what. Perhaps beautiful once, but so worn and tattered now. Yet there’s use. She could be of some use, she thinks.
So she goes. And thinks of salty sea air that is calling her, she thinks of a sun that touches her deep into her pores. It is not her home, but she will make it so for the time she feels she’s needed. Until she has completed something in being there. She does not expect to be completed in return. But she hopes for something.
And so she goes.