The River.

There’s a river out West that runs between the banks of Right and Wrong, when the storms travel East; no one’s perspective but our own.

One side carves shallow grooves, but swiftly, like ligthtening over the summit … FLASH! And it’s gone and no one remembers until it’s too late. This is what it’s like waking up to you every morning. Anger. Spit fire and hell. Brief. And stealthy.

The other deep, but lasting, like thunder shaking us deep within the earth’s core. BOOM! And it echoes and everyone stands in awe. This is what it’s like leaving you every day. Aching. Bruised and bleeding. And memorable.

This is why we can’t leave.

Because there is so much more under the surface that no one ever sees.

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