Speaking of Doubt: Twenty Answers That Fail to Answer the Ultimate Question Posed.

 

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Perhaps it was the only way to create the necessary distance between us.

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No. But I try, because the alternative is so unbearable.

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In the backyard, on the morning of the Fourth of July, her back to me, hand outstretched towards one of the stray cats.

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She looked so young, though that later proved illusory.

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Oh, yes. In that moment, at least. Though on the whole not so much, I suppose.

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Nothing, at first. And later, so far as I could divine: curiosity, anger, resentment, distress.

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Ease, perhaps. That which I am least able to offer.

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As though I have lost my family; supplanted.

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The dogs most of all. The small brown face at the window still calls to me when I come home, but of course I have no answers for him.

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Yes, amazingly.

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Wildly unadvisable, I know.

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I wish I could say.

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In truth I can see no end to it.

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Something for money, and a puppeteer, or so they tell me.

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Doesn't it?

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In some moments, yes.

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Like a stone sinking in my chest, so that I long to flee my body.

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No, never.

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Perhaps, someday. Though the fall through my eyes rips the words from my tongue, and I cannot say when the view may grow less vertiginous.

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Yes, of course. Yes. Still. Always. Yes.

 

- Kleine Fliege