Once I stopped reflecting on the moment I decided to exit this place, things started falling into place. I began to understand why my heart was racing, why I felt like I was walking on needles, why every sentence in these gardens felt like a battle.
It was April, and the weather was quintessentially muggy. Not quite winter, not quite spring. The trees were bare, but the air was thick with humidity. The sky was gray, and the tulips were bursting forth.
I checked my phone. No texts, no voicemails. Maybe they're running late. I thought, leaning against the stone wall. But as the minutes ticked by, my unease grew.
The Gothic ruin loomed behind me, its impractical details a reminder of the artificial nature of all human endeavors. I thought about Grandpa, and the funeral, and the family obligations that bound us all together.
Why was I so wired?
Why did everything seem so...hazy?
Maybe, I thought, as I gazed into the distance, maybe I was just tired of being trapped in this emotional quicksand. Maybe I needed a liberating bout of transparency, a blunt moment of truth.
And maybe, I knew, that would change everything.
...
