The Value Of Writng Things Down

It's been a year now since I posted "the girl who was witched away".  It wasn't easy to write, nor was it very informative or even very good, but it seems to have been enough. Which is what I'd hoped for, after all.
When an icy wind cuts across the fields and the sky is a certain color,  the familiar twinge of anguish bites. Then I remember, I already wrote it. It's over, it's done. The twinge is only the remnant  a 30 year-old habit. It can be dismissed, sent off to the past where it belongs. It no longer lives and breathes.

The story doesn't have to belong to me any more. I no longer have to be haunted by it. It's just another damn thing on the internet now.

Thank heavens.