She felt a melancholy rising up from the floor to greet her heart with a thud. It was a momentary memory of how easily the innocence of her friendship with Atlas had been tainted after one conversation with her therapist.
It was a good thing, she thought, that she was aware of the potential shadow side of their connection. It had spoiled the writing though.
She still lived in a strange limbo. Never sure whether he came in peace, took action in her best interests, or was simply selfish, lazy or malicious. So, she circled between the possibilities in a kind of nauseating musical chairs.
It always felt like when she put one shirt on – Perhaps the shirt of ‘he is certainly not someone I trust and want to connect with’, it always came off and went into the wash the next day. ‘What am I going to feel about this frustrating connection today??’ she thought as she made he first cup of dandelion tea.
If something positive came out of it, then perhaps it would be worth the hours she had so seemingly wasted writing into a screen. As she read back on her years of words, through different windows and lenses, she felt grateful to revisit some of the things she had learned along the journey.
What WOULD she be doing if she were not investing all this energy into these words? It seemed like a pertinent question, and yet the attraction of the process of putting thoughts onto a page pulled her in like nothing else she had ever tried to accomplish. When she was done writing, or editing and compiling, it was not long before she felt compelled to read, write and edit more.
If Atlas and Aubrey were keeping her company along the journey, then was it is as toxic as some of the people in her corner thought?
Maybe it was okay.
Maybe the unusual mechanics of the connection, and the way it operated led her people to question if Atlas was not on her side. She knew it in her heart herself. It rang true, when the wise women of the larger world told stories of ‘men like these’. In those moments she knew she was fish food. And despite the fact that her mammalian mind wanted to believe he cared for her, she thought it was much more likely that he enjoyed the attention, and gave HIS heart to other women.
The catharsis for writing it out in words, would evaporate when Atlas ignored her pain. And yet, she wrote. She just needed to find freedom from this imagined, and self constructed prison of attachment.
