Catharsis in newness, in unfamiliar territory, in noise and drinks that taste like wild truffles and cold stools that hurt to sit on.
Freedom in confession and acceptance. I lay the words on the table, knowing they will be examined without judgment, and it makes it easier to bring them to the light. I see them before me, catching the light.
They have left me and become their own entity, and I can see them for what they are now. Dark crystals. Smooth green glass in sand. Sharp fragments of calcium and salt from the rough walls of a wet cave. They look soft and inviting but they abraid the palm of my hands as I lay them down.
Some are warm like new bread, some hot as the coiled braid on a stovetop. Others glitter and chill like seawater.
Laid out before me, I sift through them gingerly, using the pads of my fingers, stir them around. There’s a truth in them, but it’s a harried, frenetic mess.
I push them apart and slide them into groups, compulsively organizing, picking through.
Dread wells up as I slowly sort the answers free.
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