She was uncertain for a long time if letting go was enough. It seemed to her some kind of awfully passive way of detaching oneself inexpertly from pain. It was almost a giving-in to the aggressive arrogance of a universe which tended, quite clearly, to practise arrogance in bucketfuls.
And there came a time, a long time after, when she realised she was fully recovered from that pain. It wasn’t because she forgot or failed to recall, or even deliberately ignored what had drilled into her core and punctured her soul and left her heart pumping futilely without love.
No. It was rather that she suddenly began to think of other lives: people she saw in the street around her: men and women who might now become friends.
And so it came to pass: she no longer simply let go. She actually felt she was worth much much better than a revisiting of the past that had immobilised her so; a past that had drilled into her core and punctured her soul and left her heart pumping futilely without love.