the thing about circumstances is, people always have to make sense of it. they go for the long, straining process of dissecting sentences, of glances, of the silence, of the reason for the sudden change of tides because they fear the short, simple task of asking. because that simplicity in itself is what's terrifying--when layers and layers of conjectures, of thoughts and questions are abruptly stripped and rendered useless. it's like driving a hundred miles an hour without brakes or seatbelts on; there's no safety, nothing to stifle the inevitable impact of grasping the truth in all its aching glory. and like all accidents, like car crashes, not everyone makes it out in one piece.

what else do we have, if not hope?

like how people involuntarily cast their eyes to the sky when the sun breaks through the gray of the storm. like lamp posts guiding restless souls in the gloom of the night to a somewhere, anywhere. like dreaming, where we allow most of what we could not once our eyes open to the waking of a new day. like the simple belief that everything--absolutely everything--will carry on to be yesterdays and then yesteryears. and no matter how much we insist that that piercing ache, or that feeling of demise is something we're not going to live through, we do live through it. if the world won't stop for bliss, then it sure wouldn't stop for a tragedy. /willtrytoedit