When Jamie and Claire reunite after Black Jack Randall’s excoriation of Jamie’s spirit, he tells Claire that the small space in his soul isn’t restored, but he’s at least managed to build a little lean-to. I’m paraphrasing because I don’t remember the exact line, but the concept is the same. Putting together my application for Howard and committing to my church that I wanted to work with them as I grow gave me a renewed sense of purpose and, well, light.
To that end, I sent Argo a message that said, “please unsubscribe from my blog. Cut the ties.” Nothing has come of it yet, but I don’t want to see her name in my followers list anymore because when I do, I get sick to my stomach and I canna breathe. I don’t care if she reads my blog. First of all, there’s nothing I can do about that. But get a damn RSS reader or something, amiright? That way, she can read and I don’t have to see her name every time I log in. It’s just too much. I recoil at the sight, and I don’t want to feel that pain, but I canna remove her myself. If that were the case, I would have removed her long ago, not because I hate her, but because I would hope that she wouldn’t want to create reactions in me anymore. She’s made it perfectly clear that’s not the case on the ground. Why in the cloud?
I have told her all the things I dinna ken, all the ways she could have been my Jenny instead of my Jamie and I blew it all to hell. She doesn’t want any part of any of that now, so I have to move on. You’d think that something as simple as an e-mail address wouldn’t jar me, and yet, it does.
Because when I see it, I only see pain. I only see darkness. I only see the past instead of the possibility of a clean, white future because she has said she doesn’t want it. There is no hope for resurrection, so it is like walking in Good Friday. I think I have done enough in that respect. If she wants no further contact, then don’t make it so easy to e-mail her every single day…. if that makes any sense at all.
There are ways of reading me where I canna figure out who ye are. I’d rather have it that way, because it just keeps me in the space of “there must be something I can say that will fix this.” I will ruminate on it until I’m blue in the face and the only one that it hurts is me.
Stories That Are All True 