It was too much, too fast. Too much for her to handle, so much that it threatened to overwhelm. She
It was too much, too fast. Too much for her to handle, so much that it threatened to overwhelm. She was a pot on the boil, and she was far, far too close to boiling over. She didn’t want to make a mess. She didn’t want to be the mess. And it was too fast. There was no other way for it to be, but even still, it was too fast. It was too much to take on in the short amount of time that she’d had, not enough time to process, or even attempt to process. Just the experience and the aftermath, in that order, but in a short enough time that any order felt somewhat redundant. It was just a blur of things, so how was she supposed to wade into them and tidy everything up into order and sequence? How was she supposed to make sense of it all? And so she cried. She cried because it seemed so unfair, so cosmically unjust that after so long feeling alone, but more importantly feeling empty, without having the first clue that that was what she was feeling, that after all this time she could suddenly find the thing that filled her completely. She cried because she didn’t feel like she’d earned it, that it had all been too easy, too wonderfully brilliantly completely stress free. That somehow this wasn’t how it was meant to be. Except. Well, except for the fact that if anything ever was meant to be, it was this. So she cried. And she grinned while she was doing it. -- source link
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