in which the answers are chosen

this girl, she has no ears, raised by books. they drown out the thrum. she closes her eyes. Everything That Rises Must Converge. flannery o'connor. she felt the pulse, the hum of the South. 

Somebody Else's Problem. douglas adams. he understood the absurdity of the universe. everyone wears blinders. everyone has a choice. 

she sits up. it's cloudy today. but it's humid and that makes her warm inside out. she was born with the thrumming inside her head and too many stitched together seams and she took care of the thrums in the beginning house, she nurtured them, they were part of her. but they're grown now. in the land of sun she severed them, let them bleed, now it's time to go. everyone has a choice. everyone always has a choice. 

do you know what it means, she says to me, to always have a choice?

i cannot answer her. i would've said the same anyway. i am fading.

she has broken things. she will not apologise. she has made a choice to make all the choices one at a time. she chooses to choose again ad infinitum. 

she has no ears but she feels. she feels the thrums and what they mean and she does not hear the words so she can choose, and she can choose, yes or no, when to leave, when to stay, when to disappear. 

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