Rowan
I've never been a good storyteller.
My mother always used to tell me to slow down, to be more patient, to think things through. It took me a long time to realize what she'd meant. I'm far too emotional; always have been. Not sure why. I run on feelings and jump from place to place and piece together a story in my head that's the truth.
Is this the truth? They say it is. I'm not sure what to believe anymore.
Pain
Whenever I was angry or upset I'd withdraw to the smallest, darkest corner of our cabin. Under the blankets, eyes and ears covered. I'd dream of the sun and the stars, I'd dream of anything; anything still and calm. Old memories, especially; the more distant they become, the more serene they appear to be. A chance to start anew, from the beginning.
I should be more patient. There is so much more that happened; small things, seemingly insignificant at the time. Looks, conversations. A few words just slightly out of place. Maybe I missed something. Maybe they're right. Maybe not.
Pain
Funny things, memories. They have a way of seeming both near and far at the same time. A nice place to travel-but only every now and then, they say. It's a dangerous place to live.
Maybe they're right. Maybe not.