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He had tried to make a clean break this time, whatever that really meant. However clean something besotted with figurative blood and perhaps more real, cumulative tears could be. And yet it was the natural thing - at the least the most impulsive thing - and it led him to this point. This point was ultimately the place at which he could no longer bear to squint his way - to somehow cover and protect himself from the inevitable fallout.
She'd stay nearby - his thoughts wouldn't allow him otherwise - and that particular type of guilt, the guilt one feels when not thinking enough about someone just recently dead and departed (as if those things can be measured), began to follow him everywhere, even though it had been a mere three days since their fateful conversation.
Certainly words like 'Fate' and 'Nature' played their part in this context. It is difficult enough to go it alone out of necessity - our survival instinct intact. But out of choice? Having to justify no longer being near her was something altogether alien.
There is something glorious to be had. And why must relativity be a guide? The mild orange and blue skies, the hospitable winter ahead - these were certainly things that would make the next expanse of time more plausible.
Slipping on his coat, he prepared to make his way back to some more familiar confines. Something about routine. Someone used to tell him to keep busy in these times. His mind wouldn't rest, unless distracted momentarily by hot bathwater, or a TV show in passing; but it was probably the body being referenced in that piece of advice. He balanced himself, and lifted his luggage off of the ground.
Date Written: November 29, 2003
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