So convinced of her isolation, she had become
its primary cause. So exhausted to chance, she
had retreated to a fine-tuned invisibility. So work-
hardened by test, she had proven she could carry
the pain. Better to be alone than a fool. Held apart
so cold lack seemed a choice instead of a failure.
Make do with less rather than feel denied of
nourishment, starved of the earth’s kinship. As
if her disease was penance for the offense of taking
up space, she surrendered her airless voice. What
would it be to let down? To choose to rescue her
own self with courage found in the merciful shade
of another, gingerly giving over her most trusted
fear without guise? What would it be to belong?
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
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