Sometimes though, I would like to be the girl who misses much. Ignorance is bliss, what you don’t know won’t hurt you, see the world through rose-colored glasses, all that. Most of my life I think I have been too aware—self-aware as opposed to self-conscious—able to see through disguises, cursed with clarity of thought.
Call it intuition, instinct, perhaps even insight, it has brought me no end of trouble. Because I am apt to see through a ruse, a lie, and most other kinds of falsehood, I have a propensity to call things as they are. More often than not, my bluntness gets me into heated arguments. I try to temper my views with a little graciousness, but the truth is often painful. When people are hurt, they tend to lash out. And there you go.
Other times, it’s the certainty of knowing that becomes frightening. I would know the end of things even before they are ready to happen.
I saw it in a letter where he wrote, “she had such small feet.” I heard it in the timbre of his voice when he said “I’ll take care of it.” I felt it in the leaden weight of his hand across my back, even as I turned my head away to avoid seeing it in his eyes. I felt the kick of it across a small city park in broad daylight, even as her eyes glazed over in denial. I understood the unraveling even before the mirror was smashed, even before I met violence full-on from the hand of a man, a bruise blossoming on the side of my mouth. I knew it in my aching desire to call home late in the night, not knowing the news of a death that was to come in the morning.
They are right, whoever they are who said that truth is resonant. The truth, it ripples out towards me and there’s no avoiding its course. Even here, so far away from my usual haunts, I can still see, my vision cutting through the wires, moving through the miles, seeing with a clarity that pains me.
What I’d give sometimes, to be the girl who misses much.