Krista Lutz

What is a life? A collection of memories? A series of glorious highs and heartrending lows? Is it a purpose, cumulative or singular? Or is it something more? Something beyond what is tangible or immaterial? Something beyond even what is found within us. Is it a million little touches? A thousand laughing smiles? Hundreds of shed tears and dozens of stolen kisses on a few desperate sighs? Is it the thread of yourself that you leave behind in those around you? The lives you're unknowingly fated to change simply by existing.

Everything in life has a price. Nothing is ever freely gifted. The universe always comes, whether in the brightest, cheek-aching second of the day or the darkest, most plaintive hour of the night, to collect its payment. To rattle and shake your world. To slither into the illusion of Eden painted by strokes of lies and deceit. And I had left the door open for it, welcoming the thief into my house to steal what was dearest to me. Even if I had done every unthinkable, irrational, detestable thing to prevent it.