The problem with reality is this: What are facts? Are they knowable or merely a consensus of perception? When is our perception ever complete? Question that even a little bit, and the brink of madness reaches back toward us. Maybe nothing is knowable. Maybe reality is illusion and invention.
A few years ago, I thought that when they left, I’d have to become someone else. I tried to picture that person in my mind. Career Lady. Or maybe Writer Lady. Or Volunteer Lady. They all seemed too detached, too isolated, or too busy trying to fill my time with other people’s problems.
I had no idea, from inside my white picket fence existence, that I had already learned how to live in the world beyond our family’s front gate.