A wishing well

I have a good friend who told me once that her favorite thing about me was my ability to see people. That I can disarm them with just a look by making them feel entirely at home.

To learn the full truth of experience you must experience it first-hand. I hate this. I hate that this is true and is used as justification for bad things that happen.

I know I’m brave. I just wish I didn’t have to be brave so often.

I realize that on a day to day, I say the word wish more often than others. I’ve never wanted to be someone who sat on a wish, wondering when the water would turn the stone into my star and soar it back to me again. I understood that I was in charge of my own happiness. But there are wishes that hurt to wish, which is perhaps why I toss them into a pond of dirty, rusted water, hoping that that penny will make me lighter, somehow. I know it makes no sense for me to wish that things could be different in ways they can’t be different. I have no power over past, even if I wish all my pennies to water. So the past becomes the past, forever in a pond, forever seen and unseen, forever metallic in flavor, but it has no power over me when it’s drowned.