sets the light timers.
T
he suitcase is ready, the house in order. She is home, and she is not, a feeling of disengagement filling her soul. It is a few shades darker than sadness and one lighter than desperation. I could have a drink right now. I get it. May be easier than finding the strength to turn away and go on like before.
Does she truly want her life to be like before?
Sara undresses and throws her clothes in the laundry basket, wishing she could step away from the world as if out of a pair of jeans to leave on the floor to trample. She turns the hot water and then the cold, wriggling her fingers under it.
W
ould she pick up the pants and shake them straight to wear again?
She closes the glass door and hangs the towel over it.
Or would she kick them down the stairs and flip them with her toes into the rubbish bin just in time for trash day?
Where the Blue Begins
Like A Blue Thread
the “world” is not physical. it is whatever isn’t spiritual.
I didn’t realize when I wrote that sentence, the scene, that the world is not what I had thought. Just checked with Merriam-Webster and see that, just as I expected, the definition of world is quite diverse and convoluted. Regardless, I define it as above — sometimes, it’s clearer to identify something by what it isn’t than by what it is.
