You don’t realize the signficance of this very small thing until it’s too late. That’s the danger of small things; they slip right past us, burrowing deep inside, rooting twisted hooks almost impossible to remove. What’s more, you think the problem is something else, and you spend most, if not all your time with this something else, until at the end when it resurfaces, bigger, grander. Imposing, though you don’t realize it at the moment.

The seeming triumph of having discovered this is made hollow when you find that it’s harder to rid than to keep. Actions can be hidden, but never undone. Words, in particular, cannot be un-worded; sound is impossible to capture with our hands. You’re exhausted, having spent the time on the something else, and so contend to live with these hooks, ignoring the sharp stabs until they’ve become dull because your heart has absorbed its qualities. Soon, you’re swallowed whole without even knowing. What’s worse, you’ve welcomed it in.

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