It’s not easy being gorgonzola

It was with unreserved adoration, yet acceptance of a love, a love that could not be, that she sat at her computer, legs folded over one another for the time being, before blood drifted from her lower limbs, coagulated in her brain, convoluted her thoughts, and forced her to regurgitate utterances of resigned sadness through her fingertips. She pressed keys loudly enough to hear every letter of every word gushing from her head, giving voice to the chords that had muted in her throat as her lips moved silently with the tributaries of sentences flooding out. With an inability to raise her eyes and face the lexis streaming together the letter that may conclude her fate, she carried on in indifferent ambiguity, unconvinced that it may ever even be read.  She was in love. A love that could not be.

Her chest palpitated as she recollected his hand having pressed just that morning the very home her heart resided in, nestled in her sternum below the blemished skin that burned heavy with his sweaty palm, below the quilting that weighed them into the crevices of one another’s bodies on her mattress, below the roof of the apartment tenured by memories with no security deposit for the emotional storm brewing within her.

She sighed.

A light rain began to fall from the ducts of her eyes as the tempest developed. The gusts grew to gales and the squall picked up wind speed in her head, violently tearing rationality from the walls of her cranium. It tumultuously ravaged her sanity, her grounding to the world around her, and her focus on anything but the passion that was time and time again leaving wreckage formed into heaps of what was once an identity, wholly formed into a human of sound stature.

The scraps were scattered for her to pick from, and she could retrieve only what she could carry in the arms of her mind before emotions would spill over onto the floor of her consciousness. This was her time to decide. She began kicking around the thoughts strewn about after the storm, laying the scraps before her, so that she might choose wisely, if wisdom even still remained.

She started with lucidity, tucking into her breast pocket. She funneled balance back in through her ears, liquid, cold, and coursing through her until she stood upright. Motivation, compassion, creativity, appreciation, she bundled up into her left hand, wobbling with all of her newfound traits. One free hand remained and amongst the litter of possibilities she noticed one speculatively akin to a seed, its iridescent surface lacquered in white and dirtied in a muddy black gloss. She recollected the time she had seen it once before, he had given it to her from a small bag he carried in his left pocket.

The seed was hope.

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