I wrote this over Christmas break.
That’s the problem with you. You open a book, read the first few chapters, and skip to the ending. When you don’t like how it pans out, you ditch the story altogether. Life doesn’t work like that.
A story isn’t a story without a reader. A reader isn’t a reader without a story. That story is your life, and you have to live it, regardless of the ending. It’s up to you whether that story is a triumph of life, art, love, and endurance or a tale of defeat from the start.
She heard those words in her head and, no matter how hard she tried to shut them out, she couldn’t.
That’s what happens with Truth. It keeps knocking and knocking, relentlessly pursuing you at every angle until you open the door, take off its coat, let it settle in on the couch of your heart, and you see it for what it is. Then, after making yourself a cup of tea, truth stays until you converse with it awhile, letting it speak deep into your soul and pull out the tangled mess of everything within.
With all laid bare, it caresses the rough places to make them smooth, pours salve on the wounds, and crafts them into a new blanket to cover your soul. But now, that blanket is a new creature all of its own, a re-birthed sense of self, a new creation. All of the past combines in just one thread of it all, leaving your eyes to behold the glory that is the essence of yourself—the joys, the dreams, the idiosyncrasies, the hopes you hide from everyone else—they all become knit together as one. And they become you. They become your story. And that story must be told.
She took a deep breath, listening to the sound of her own heartbeat, and began to let those words sink in. Once she had heard them all, she picked up her pen and began to write.