She wondered how she could have treated herself with so little respect. It was a topic that sat like an elephant on her frontal lobe, a real circus act of thought, that lately had consumed too much of her time.
She wanted to get lost. She would read books, try to entangle herself in the labyrinth of thought between words and pages; the edges would give her paper-cuts, she turned the pages with such fervor . She listened to music. Her thoughts would carry with a melody, travel to loftier heights, than the visceral four walls of her shoe-box apartment. She would sew, set her hands to some mindless task to try to forget, to try to understand, to try to move on. She recognized the ease of which wrongs were done and the difficulty with which the undoing happened. She was coming undone; thoughts scattered, nerves shot, feelings overcame.
She also realized the difference between forgiving and understanding. Forgiveness implies that a wrong transpired. Understanding is something harder to grapple with; it is completely empathetic. It requires the looking outside of one’s own minute corner of the universe to really acknowledge the self-autonomy of another. She was finding understanding difficult because her feelings were beating against her insides like guerrilla warfare; military tactics without the formality of rules. Her heart had called martial law and it ruled her every action.
She threaded the eye of the needle with some difficulty. Her hands were like birds, flitting with nervous energy. She hoped to find some understanding between the precise lines of thread. With each stab of the sharp tip into the fabric, she hoped.