Prepared To Fly, Even If She Has

Everything Is Randomly Connected.

And Just As I Begin To Believe That All Is Well, There Is Some Subtle Change In The Light. The Room Takes Its True Shape. I Fight To Go Back To That Blissful Ignorance, But It Is Too Late. The Dull Pain Of Truth Weights My Soul, Pulling It Under. I Am Left Hopelessly Awake.

We're All Strangers Connected By What We Reveal, What We Share, What We Take Away--our Stories. I Guess That's What I Love About Books--they Are Thin Strands Of Humanity That Tether Us To One Another For A Small Bit Of Time, That Make Us Feel Less Alone Or Even More Comfortable With Our Aloneness, If Need Be.

We Create The Illusions We Need To Go On. And One Day, When They No Longer Dazzle Or Comfort, We Tear Them Down, Brick By Glittering Brick, Until We Are Left With Nothing But The Bright Light Of Honesty. The Light Is Liberating. Necessary. Terrifying. We Stand Naked And Emptied Before It. And When It Is Too Much For Our Eyes To Take, We Build A New Illusion To Shield Us From Its Relentless Truth.

The Desperation Meeting The Silence With Its Unmasked Wish.