the shepherd's sword

his heart, my words

i took a friend's recounts of an experience and wrote them down to say the things that he couldn't. thanks for the inspiration, wyatt.

she always decorated with uncompromisingly blurry pictures, and you could tell by the reverent way she looked at them that she thought they were art. i think it's because photographs are pages in a story, and she was looking for the missing chapters of hers. she had spent her entire life trying to find and understand her story, and so i think that those pictures with their haziness filled in the aching gaps, at least momentarily. maybe it was because they were so subjective, and maybe it's because they were flawed. maybe it was because they appeared as the world did when she didn't wear her glasses. i don't know.

she always treated life like an ill-fitting suit or some other garment, which she stored away and then brought out and tried on every few years, only to find it itchy, ugly, or simply improper for whatever reason. she would want desperately to throw the thing away at that point, but for reasons indiscernible to me decided at the last moment to keep it, fold and hide it away, and try again someday. she never felt as though she was made for life, or life for her.

she loved lipstick and the rain and the color black. she cried over books more than she cried over the nonfiction surrounding her, and she lied all of the time. i don't think she could help it, really. lying was as natural as breathing to her, and morality always yapped at her heels like a dog. she never liked dogs. they were too excitable.

probably most notably, she wasn't afraid of anything but love. i never understood that. i never understood her, even though i desperately wanted to. one day i woke up, and she was gone, and after i pushed past my bitterness with somewhat monolithic strength all i could do was hope that she had finally found happiness, wherever she was.