Morning is probably my favorite time to write nowadays. If only mornings here (at my father's house) weren't so loud and balancing precariously between simmering anger and straight-out flash-fight, morning writing might prove easier. It is a constant stream of "he's crazy-she's crazy" at this house in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes it just makes so much more sense to travel to my ex's house and let them call me crazy, too.
He the rock: staying in place and trying to pin her down. She the free-like butterfly, and all he wants is to clip her wings, let her fall back to earth, to him, so they can live together happily. I am nervous for them, and for her daughter, and for myself. I might always think of my own relationships, well, it's not as bad as theirs was...which won't necessarily mean it's anything of an improvement.
1 comment:
The Stories from that house are becoming the same over and over in different transitions if you are lucky that is. But most definitely it would be easier to want to dodge it, but what can ya do?
As long as either of us are alive, crazy should be a compliment. :D
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