August 13th, 2022
You read the words again.
You’re young and you fall in love with the story, the first and last time you will fall in love. The plot thrills, the characters sing, the words pierce and they cut and they dig and find a place in your soul, creating a permanent home there.
You read the words again.
There are things in this story that you didn’t see before. You’re older now, by years, and you’re not sure if you changed or the story changed but one or both things must be true. Some of the feelings you felt before are there, but others fall away to make room for these new ones; it’s exciting, overwhelming, exhausting. You can’t go home again but you can, and home will always be a familiar and foreign place.
You read the words again.
You went on and lived more life and now you’re back in the story, not only piecing together its elements but your own; your past and present and future disregard the linearity of time, rearranging themselves and fitting in place, like bones, like limbs, making the story more than a story, and more like a life in itself.
You read the words again.
You realize the story isn’t a story at all. It’s a person, a living being. And you realize that all living beings change, both internally and by virtue of your change. You understand more, you feel more deeply, you see the things that have always been there but couldn’t see before. The story also knows you’ve changed and wants nothing more than to be there for you. It wants to hold your hand and walk with you, until you can no longer walk, until there is nothing left of you to take steps. The story loves you. The story has always loved you.
You read the words again.
You fall in love again. For the first and the last time. This is life, if you let it.
You read the words again.
You read the words again.
You read the words again.
The Den 