fictional prose: the unsung part of unpredictable

Life is unpredictable. That’s the unsung part of it ultimately being enjoyable. If it was not than there’d be no mystery, no intrigue and no anticipation… and, thus no surprises. After all, as knowing might mean you could brace for the pain, it would also temper the times of enjoyment.

She lifted the small, porcelain cup to her lips and sipped. The warmth of the liquid immediately tingled through her body in stark contrast to the cool spring breeze. Drawing a smile to her face she placed the cup back down with a soft click on the ledge and shifted her body back against the wall peering out over the square.

The more time passed the more secure she thought she felt. She could not account for the actions of others and in so much turned introspective for accountability. Control is often an illusion and security a derivative of this illusion offering a safe predictability to situations. Yet, she felt as if she was gaining control, at least, over herself.

Drifting peddles fallen from the flowering trees danced upon the breeze, insouciantly bobbing along and frolicking directionless past her. Wistfully dreaming they were pink and white fairies fluttering by and she longed to be more like them, floating freely through the world. Feeling in control, therefore, came at a price for her. It was not a conscious trade of spontaneity and surprise but it happened nonetheless.

“But, if thing had turned out differently,” her mind drifted inside itself, “than I wouldn’t be who I am today.”

She was not willing to accept that trade-off. It might not have been the course of life she wanted, but it was the one she was living. To this point she always went along with it, accepting the whims of chance as part of the natural progression of existence. It was not without purpose, as if aimlessly she was ensnared by fate, but more, that she was accepting of circumstances as they came.

Recently, however, she’d become pressured to conform to the illusion of control under the guise of responsibility. It was the quest of her friends to convince her that she needed to action over affairs.

There is a subtle line between action and acceptance in life. It is not delineated in any specific way, rather, it ambiguously exists in the definition of the definer with the subtle shadings of shadows being recast as the sun moves across the horizon. She never struggled with understanding the definition until recently as failure held little real meaning to her.

Rejection holds an undertone of failure in it. This notion rattled her now. In the past, it was simply just not meant to be and the experience served to support who she purported to be.

About thedoormouse

I am I. That’s all that i am. my little mousehole in cyberspace of fiction, recipes, sacrasm, op-ed on music, sports, and other notations both grand and tiny:
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