Cassandra in Reverse

by Holly Smale

My theory is that my brain is like a lazy IT department, and every time there’s a problem with the electrics it just panics and pulls the plug out at the wall. Switch her off, switch her back on again: see if that helps.

You can say what you like about my brain—and a lot of people have done over the decades—but it certainly knows how to return to factory settings.

I don’t understand it, but there’s just something in me that knows how to stand still when the earth shatters.

Because if things can be broken, then things can be changed; and if things can be changed, then it stands to good and logical reason that they can also be fixed.

Time is the invisible thread that weaves our stories together. And sixty seconds can change everything.

I don’t think we talk enough, as a species, about how ridiculously difficult it is to make basic conversation. People act like it should be fun, but it isn’t.

Love is a courageous thing to pursue, and to me Eos represents hope, and resilience, and light in the darkest hour. She represents the strength to keep trying, even when you know you’re doomed. She represents new beginnings and refusing to accept defeat. She also represents the ability to change your husband into a cicada when he gets very old and kind of annoying.

It’s funny how living in a house with other people in it feels infinitely lonelier than living completely alone.

“Wrong conclusion,” I say in exhaustion. “It’s perfectly possible to fancy men and still not fancy you, Derek.” And I shut the door in his face.

I get caught up with trying to read all the music around me instead of one note inside myself.”

The full truth is not easy or comfortable; it is often far safer to construct an alternative that keeps everyone happy instead. Especially when it’s the story we’re weaving for ourselves.

That’s the thing I’ve never really understood about emotions. We’re given unhelpful words for them—sad, happy, angry, scared, disgusted—but they’re not accurate and there never seems to be anywhere near enough of them. How could there be? Emotions aren’t binary or finite: they change, shift, run into each other like colored water. They are layered, three-dimensional and twisted; they don’t arrive in order, one by one, labeled neatly. They lie on top of each other, twisting like kaleidoscopes, like prisms, like spinning bird feathers lit with their own iridescence.

After all this time, Artemis still doesn’t seem to understand that I do not set my life on fire and run away from somebody I hate. Where would be the logic in that? Hate is never what the matches are made of.

Time is strange: it moves so quickly and so quietly that sometimes it feels like it hasn’t moved at all.

There are infinite things you can do with time. You can save it, spend it, stitch it, kill it. You can beat it, steal it and watch it fly. You can do time and set it; you can waste it and keep it; it can be good or bad, on your side or against you. You can have a whale of it; be in the nick of it or behind it; you can have it on your hands. Memories are time travel, and so are regrets, hopes and daydreams. When we die, the people we love carry us forward into it.

“No. I’m mostly on my own.” And the complete truth of this statement shocks me, because I am mostly on my own. I am so permanently alone that I can feel it in my bones, in my eyeballs, in the roots of my hair. I feel loneliness like a physical presence, as if someone heavy is sitting on my chest. I feel it when I wake up and I feel it when I walk down the street. I feel it when I eat and when I dance; I feel it when I’m with people, and I feel it when I’m not. I feel loneliness inside me, all of the time, but I also like to be alone and I don’t really like other humans much either, so where the hell does that leave me?