Some truths go beyond just talking. They go to forever. They carry you beyond eternity. Do what’s right for you, he said. She needed a distraction from all the just talking that was circling around the truth of what she felt.
Felt. A kind of cloth made by rolling and pressing wool, or another suitable textile, accompanied by the application of moisture or heat, which causes the constituent fibres to mat together to create a smooth surface.
Matted together. All the mess of existence, matted together, smoothed down into politeness. She would like to rip her own body apart and rebuild it, reconfigure it, reset, begin again. Accompanied by moisture. Accompanied by heat. Rolling and pressing. A distraction that might create a smooth surface from all of this mess.
Another suitable textile might absorb the truths that leak out of her. That there is no right for her. That the right time never comes. That everything she dreams is a lie.
There is no such thing as just talking. There is no such thing as friendship without ulterior motive. There is no such thing as thirty minutes of ad-free entertainment. There is no now. There’s only forever, reaching beyond eternity.