Last night, I was dealt the hand of disappointment. Nothing shocking, though it was surprising enough to make my heart leap completely out of my chest for a moment. I sit here, still in bed, on the gray morning right after my pain first leapt upon me....I should be upset. I should feel like an anvil is sitting on my chest, and getting up is the most difficult task. I should be Emily Dickinson, if she actually lived out her poetic life.
But I'm fine. No ellipses. I am actually ok...I woke up, expecting to get kicked all over again with the daylight shining harshly on my reality, but...nothing. I guess what I have been saying this past month, that I have become so sure of myself and independent in the best way, has survived the real test. I know exactly who I am, and I love that person deeply. I'm not asking what's wrong with me, like I normally would, and I'm not trying to change who I am, another charming thing I used to do. I woke up, though wow slap in the face, then went back to the filing system and realized that overnight, my disappointment had moved himself to being a friend. The potential for beautiful friendship still remains. He can be my Louie instead of my Ilsa, if I may once again place myself in Humphrey Bogart's role in Casablanca (so incredible, so parallel. Except for the war thing.)
In it's own way, the rain and dappled light and frantic birdsong of today is it's own kind of beauty. Being kicked in the heart and realizing that I'm completely okay with it? That's beautiful too.
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