Oh how the fat lady sings

Deaf, dumb, blind, amnosia, anhedonia - while bawling my eyes out on the last hundred pages of my most recent book-reading slog-fest (I kept pulling a Matthew and reading other books), I couldn't help but appreciate the magical prowess of this author in captivating, capturing my senses and rooting them so deeply in the lives of the characters that I was one of the family, fictionalized though they are.

I'm sitting here, reading by lamplight, praying that the heroes punch the enemies in the face, and then repenting of my cruelty when one of the characters whispers to his brother: "open your fists and let go of the coals."

I'm weeping now.

Then, as one character is duped, all are desperately seeking love, and each follows an unusual path back into redemptive family, I find myself wanting to start all over again, to traverse the same hurts, pains, angers, fights, and eruptions, because I know my heart will break only the more when I find the redemption, hope, and enduring family that rises from the ashes of despair.

L and A: this is your fault.

I feel like my emotional insides have been pressure-washed out clear through me, and I'm not sure whether I'm clean, or raw, or even functional at this juncture, only that I was a vessel through which something brilliant was poured, and right now I feel not clean, but cleaned out - perhaps even struck out. There is, to be certain, a distinct out-ness which permeates my being, which I pray will be partially remedied and stupid-relieved by sleep. Oh, how the fat lady sings, and it is the swan song of my evening, beautiful and sorrowful and bright.