Presuppositions 

She reveals to no one in particular, he doesn’t know what to do with me.She pauses. As if in pain. She’s an actress who never lets on. She’s not the seductress she gets accused of (being). She sighs silently. The little girl left still believes that there could be importance in not denying the truth of experience but just as soon thereafter the mind plays its tricks on her, and any possibility of other than what she has, feels stuck with, resigned to, doesn’t even have the anchor of the one thing she misses and simply cannot get over but must instead just pass by and I at the grief of all failure lie as time is short and we must not tarry out sweet time begging others to see deeply with their being what I see and feel with such intensity precisely because it has always been shattered and missing so to have a piece of it show up at all confounded the numbness brought upon her soul.
She hadn’t given up on hope on live on understanding just transferred the human need for such things as a non dysfunctional marriage away from any hope of the thing most wanted and not gotten due to circumstances beyond anyone’s control and what sanctimonious people label as bad choices but they’re only ever bad in retrospect so they’re not really choices. There’s no a) good b) bad c) nobody cares what you do with your life and existence.
Because you have no blood relating to even claim. What used to feel liberating now seems stifling and as substantially & existentially lonely and isolated as it gets. With no progenitors, you have not been here and will easily be erased from time.
That’s how it feels.
He doesn’t know what to do with me, she told no one in particular. They never do.

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