Visible Consequences to Invisible Burdens

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


I watched as a deep, dark, gulf widened between two people leaning against the same Honda Civic. Papers had been served, the process of divorce started. It wasn't too late to stop but it was too late to stop without consequences. My sister's whole body was wound up tighter than a wrung out rag. Arms crossed, she looked away without responding much. She's always had a peculiar way of looking at the world and the people in it, skipping from one drama fueled ride to the next, all the while protesting how much she hated being drawn into that kind of emotional chaos. In the drama themed park, she had a deluxe wrist band that she auto-renewed each year. She just couldn't see it.

Her husband, soon to be an ex, closed the distance to just a few feet. Unfortunately for him, the physical distance didn't mean half as much as the emotional, and my sister's emotional distance might as well be on Pluto.

The sad thing is that I don't even think she knows the kind of catharsis she was looking for when she set this all up.


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