The Fear

My roommate said, "Most girl, or very often, a woman will match herself to her husband's preference and lifestyle."

I didn't have much to contribute to her notion. I am not married. Yet. Oh bother, just not.

Oh before that, here's some hint to what this post is really about:

“His absence seemed a solid thing, a burden I must carry in addition to my grief... Yet I knew I would continue to live. Sometimes that knowledge seemed the worst part of my loss.” —Robin Hobb

Crack

I don't know.

     I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't. Maybe I can list my problems, maybe I talked about it, maybe it's already solved, yet something is tugging that heart of mine, and deaf-ly nagging my mind. I just don't understand what though.

... that he choose me...

Chade, I know the Fool is strange. But I like it when he comes to talk to me. He speaks in riddles, and he insults me, and makes fun of me, and gives himself leave to tell me things he thinks I should do, like wash my hair, or not wear yellow. But (...) I like him. He mocks me, but from him, it seems a kindness. He makes me feel, well, important. That he could choose me to talk to.

 I can't get this out of my head.