I see myself folding in, curled up tight as can be. I wanted to feel the fire in my veins, but all I feel is exhaustion. An overwhelming urge to turn away from the world and its bright chattering noise, to huddle silent and contained in the privacy of my fears. Afraid to look ahead and haunted by the path behind, because every day could be the day I listen and listen and hear nothing but static and that eerie whooshing through the trees.
And then the blood...and the tiny broken body...how can I retrace those steps without lying down and not getting back up? I should feel reassured as time slips by, but every week only seems like a higher cliff from which to fall. So I burrow in, close my eyes and ears, and wait for my foot to slip.