The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 7

by Beth Brower

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.

A sobering and somewhat disappointing realisation when one understands they are their own worst enemy.

I am experiencing the dissatisfaction that comes after weeks of barrelling at such a pace one can’t keep one’s feet on the ground. But when a perfectly blank day presents itself, one is too out of sorts to make heads or tails of it. March has been such a gallop. The quiet should be restful but feels maddening.

“These last three years I’ve guarded all the borders, not trusting anyone to wander too far in, because I had yet to let Maxwell leave. Now I have, but I do worry about what was left behind. Worried what I might find—or what you might find—if I were to trust you inside the walls. But these few weeks, I’ve been thinking that not only do I wish you would step across the border, but I want you to do so. I’ve been telling myself that the wreckage won’t bother you. That you would be rather patient but present while I sort it out.”