She saw her past compressed into a single stroke of colour that made a bridge for her, not out of time, but through it.  She did not drop, she crossed herself, and in the moment of crossing herself she was freed.

Free. Free from the outcrop where she had been marooned.  The rocky place of thistle and salt.  The heart beat back so many times that it finds its only home in isolation.  The isolated heart, that in protecting itself from pain, loses so much of beauty and buys its survival at the cost of life.

Better to go forward than to retreat.  Better to fight the hurt than to flee from it.  She did not know this until the quick second of her fall and as she fell she prayed for wings.  She prayed not out of self-pity nor regret, but out of recognition.  She need not die.  She could fight.  Too late?  No.  Not for her it was not too late.

01/12/08

Art and Lies Jeanette Winterson