Since the hellhound was taken away from me, I have come to understand the necessity and value of dependence. I listened to a man speak of an oxcart. He said it is easier to push one, than it is to think about it. I agreed, without fully grasping what he meant then, or now. What I did comprehend, was enough for me to feel satisfied with his teachings. Then, I thought about getting an oxcart, but I wouldn’t know where to buy one.
I will always need something, even when I have an abundance of what I demand. This is how I came into the world. A slight bruise on the brain, caused by mother’s sharp ribs. I long for it all. I guard what I have, and yearn for what I do not. There is a part of me forever aching at the hands of melancholia, debilitated by calling out to what will not respond.
I no longer hide behind ten glasses of wine. My skirts have all been lengthened. I do not believe the answers are found in the words of a man. My mother’s eyes are no longer a glowing red. My father’s power was taken by the thunderstorm. I can see how far I’ve come, just as I see how far I need to go.