Five: Grace

The wastebasket already overflowed with crumpled papers. Some blank. Others covered in pen. Words. Drawings. Silence. Toss. It landed square in the middle, but bounced off finding a place to land.

She sighed and started over. Her already-white knuckles grasped the pen with a certain urgency... willing it to be the connection that would allow her heart to freely flow onto paper. She squinted and wrinkled her nose. There had to be easier ways.

Rip.

Sigh.

Crumple.

Sigh.

Toss.

She dropped the pen and allowed her thoughts to turn into whispers."You'd think that by now I'd be an expert at this, wouldn't you? After all the messes I've made, cleaning up wouldn't seem like such a chore by now..."

The silence listened. Or engulfed. Either way, it remained what it was... silence.

"I thought that once was enough. Maybe twice for those of us who suffer from stubbornness. Three times. Then four. And then five. Wait. What number am I at?" The ever-thinning notebook spoke for itself. Too many times.

She began writing again. Pause. Re-read.

...they always seem to sense when you're weakest. It's always after you just made a choice-- a choice that took everything you had inside to make-- and now you're just left empty. It's always after these choices that they come back to taunt... to haunt...

Always when you're weakest. Always. You never know if you learned the lesson until you’re in the same situation… again.

...inches from where I knew the waves would hit. A sand castle, crafted by complete concentration. A sand castle doomed for destruction. This sand castle wouldn't, however, be destroyed by a storm, or rain, or even someone stepping on it. Instead, it would be destroyed by the gentle lapping of the waves. I am that castle...

So fragile. So complex, yet so simple. She was that castle. For so long she had tried to build herself. Fortify and strengthen. Construct and design. Creating something she could be proud of. Yet always, inches away from the very things she new would destroy her. The gentle lapping of the waves...

Thoughts to whispers. "I'm so tired of striving. So tired of trying. So tired of being tired. I don't want to see you in the flames or in the rushing waters or in reckless abandonment. A quiet whisper would be enough. But where are you?"

Silence. Overwhelming silence.

Rip.

Sigh.

Crumple.

Sigh.

Toss.

She turned to the next page in the notebook. To start over. To try again. She willed herself to write, yet only one word found itself on the paper:

grace