These are the ways that I talked about, silly girl

Sitting on the floor, I'd replay the past in my head. Funny that's all I did, day after day after day for half a year, and I never tired of it. What I'd been through seemed so vast, with so many facets. Vast but real, very real which was why the experience persisted towering before me, like a monument lit at night. And that the thing was it was a monument to me. I inspected the events in every possible angle. I'd been damaged, badly, I suppose. The damage was not pretty. Blood has flowed, quietly. After a while, some of the anguish went away, some only surfaced on later. And yet my half year indoor was not spent in convalescence. Not in autistic denial of the external world. I simply needed time to get back on my feet. Once on my feet, I tried not to think where I was heading. That was another question entirely to be thought out at a later date. The main thing was to recover my equilibrium.