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.

Today matters—that’s what the cosmos is trying to tell me—and four months is still enough to make a real change to my life.

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

Sometimes all I need is the shock of change to break me out of a loop of my own creation.

It must be lovely to know exactly how you feel at any given moment.

Honestly, I thought I’d know what I was doing with my life by my thirties, but I don’t have a single clue. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I don’t want. I don’t know what’s supposed to make me happy. In the meantime, the rest of the world seems to be just getting on with it. I look online and everyone I’ve ever met is having babies and getting engaged and getting promoted and buying a new kitchen. It feels like literally everyone I know is moving forward.”

Sal :<

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.

I suppose time doesn’t mean anything when you remember everything.

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.

And I suddenly realize that my life no longer feels paper-plate disposable; I can’t just throw it away or undo it. I don’t want to discard it because it’s not perfect, or because there are flaws in my tapestry. It’s not quite there yet—there’s still a long way to go—but I want my life to eventually become ceramic: one I can wash and keep, even when it chips. A life I can use every day; one I smile at because it makes me happy, like a picture of a cute hedgehog.

Because the whole truth is overwhelming, but sometimes you have to be brave enough to look it straight in the eye. Artemis has spent the last ten years apologizing, but I was the one who couldn’t forgive, who ran away, who cut her off without giving her a chance to make things better. Who tucked my pain and memories neatly away where they could never be accessed, never be processed, never be given the room to breathe or grow old. Who trapped the past in a time capsule, sealed it up and buried it deep inside me where nobody could reach it.