The Write Thing

People struggle. Some struggle with awareness, which is there but escapes them as they move forward in the vacuum toward the encounter with their better self. Others simply struggle. She started struggling only a while ago, but it was always clear that she was ready to put up a fight to her own struggling. She would stop and stare, only to seek asylum beneath the pages of a prayer book that might put words in her mouth she would be otherwise unable to pronounce. In that lonely and borrowed way, she struggled. Will she go on struggling? Maybe. When she crosses the bridge to the other side of the continent, many truths will possibly be there, waiting, to haunt her. Perhaps they already haunt her now. So she prefers to react by hiding behind the lock in the metal door that leads to the house upstairs. She prefers not to deal with more, she cannot handle more. She wants to be right, something inside her tells her she is, but she is not. She is simply struggling, against herself.