#011311

The rain won't last forever. It's always darkest before the dawn. Things have to get worse in order for them to get better.

Bottom line?

01102011: Call from work.

01112011: BLASTED PAPERWORK!

01122011: Is it just me, or did I just have this feast.

01132011: GYM.

01142011: Time to spend more time with you.

01152011: Long drive.

She is insane - undeniably, irreparably insane.  There is no explanation for it but that, when her stomach turns at the thought of tonight and she once again meets the acid burning its way up her throat (her stomach was emptied of its contents hours ago).  It's the third time her mouth watered before heaving above a garbage can today, and it's practically welcomed at this point, like an old friend.  It's not even noon yet, but she is already ready to give up and stay in for the rest of the day.  Today feels wrong and most importantly dangerous, like the breath you hold when aiming a gun.

But she must be insane, right?  There's no way she can know things before they happen (although it has happened again and again and again and she's so sorry that you lost your son, she should have said something but how was she supposed to know that she knew?).  It's easy to deny these things months after they have happened (the good looks that hid sinister intentions, the crash and burn, the filled uterus that soon turned empty and how she knew it all).  It's easy to reason it away. 

Logically, she assumes she is crazy.  Premonitions are all fine and dandy in books but, frankly, this is her life.   So she blames her hangover for the rolling of her belly, excusing herself out of tonight's activities, silently praying in a part of herself that she denies that nothing turns sour tonight and the knowledge she holds deep inside her brain turns out to be wrong.

It's safer to be psychotic, to be able to denounce her proclivity for knowing.  But she is still unable to sleep that night, only finding a reprieve in slumber after the phone call that explains what her sense of foreboding had meant (violence, swift and sound, and unmitigated terror).

She hates being right so she escapes into the sleep finally allowed to her now that her knowledge has become a truth.  Before her eyes close for the night, she hopes that tomorrow is different and that tomorrow she is completely sane.  She hopes that, tomorrow, this knowledge will escape her.

(And, like a sigh, her intuition is forgotten until it appears again, a mantle she hates to wear but can't take off until it leaves her of its own desire.)