How the moments stand there, solid and real, monuments to all our past mistakes, littering the valleys of our memories, haphazard like the outlines of some demented maze.
From up here, high on the hill of remembering she looks down in to the valley of her past, seeing the memories standing there. She feels the temptation to trace the path between them, to uncover the secret of the path that led her up here. But she knows, as we all know deep down, there is no sense to that route between the monuments of her past.
These things are not supposed to make sense. It is random, chaos, happenstance. She stopped believing in some omnipotent guiding hand when she shrugged off her childhood and began the long slow climb of the hill of understanding, as we all must do if we are to make sense of anything.
She left behind, far below, all notions of destiny and the future being anything other than what the past and accident make to form the present.
She knew that the climb up the hill of understanding was all the purpose she would need, that and a loving hand to help her over some of the more awkward parts of the climb.
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