Look at me. I can't wallow in anguish, joy, or any other deep feeling without forming it into an applicable situation for a story character. My world is crashing down on me, and I'm wondering how to make a bestseller out of it.
How do I feel now? Surprisingly, not that bad. A sense of relief, now that it's over. Resolve, now that I know what to do. Renewal, making a fresh start. Regret? Perhaps.
There's a strange euphoria to being free. Light as a bird, light as a feather, light-headed? I went around the house this morning singing the Olympics theme at the top of my lungs, and then "They're Coming to Take Me Away." Triumph, and still going mad.
There's an odd peace in having a plan. I know to not trust myself as much, and examine myself more thoroughly. I know the world better now - nothing is innocent. I've dealt with a riptide, and thus know the ocean. It's big, blue, beautiful, and dangerous.
There's a funny excitement to starting over. The pleasure of seeing a chalky slate wiped clean, or waking up in the morning, or seeing the rain wash off the dust and dirt of the past week.
And there's an explicable twinge when I remember what had happened, that necessitated all this. The journey we've taken. The journey I now take. The journey that cannot be taken again.
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