A Monster Calls

by Rie

I had another book make me cry.

Books that deal with death tend to do that.

I used to be proud of the fact that I rarely cried. Ha. No more.

Now. Now I find it a relief. It’s proof, if anything, that I still feel. And, as useless as emotions are, it is a relief to feel them.

It is nice to cry over someone else’s grief. It is more impersonal and it is not mine except in the moment that it is. And, if it becomes too much, I put it away until I am ready. It is not like facing my own problems, far from it.

But if a monster came calling, as it might in any of its many forms, perhaps I’d finally learn a lesson in duplicity.

Oh, how terrified I am of deception – both mine and others.

I am trying to tie together what seems so separate in this post – stories and sadness and lies.

I can’t, though. I like how cryptic this post has become – a yarn that has been carelessly wound.

For today, this is enough.

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