It's hardly as though these are Nadine's unique struggles. She knows enough about the people in her life to know that. Certainly enough about Geralt to know that surely he does - even if, perhaps, he doesn't exactly struggle.
"Sometimes it feels like all that stuff, everything before...like it happened to some other woman. Some stranger with my face and my life. I don't know if that's some kind of self-defense mechanism, separating oneself from one's past actions. It'd make sense, but...sometimes it's so far away, and sometimes it's so close, sometimes I feel so bad about it and sometimes I just...I don't know."
She shakes her head. It's so hard to put these thoughts and ideas into words. They're formless feelings, vaguely outlined concepts that seem so sure and certain in the unbound theater of her mind but defy any attempts to be corralled by language. The strange sense of unreality that comes on her sometimes, as though her own past was a movie or a storybook. Looking at her memories as though they were photos in someone else's album. The flux and shift between guilt and shame and just plain not caring. There are days when her past is so near to her and weighs on her like an anchor in her gut, and days when she shrugs it off as though all of it had meant nothing.
It can't have ever meant nothing.
Maybe this is just what that oft-referenced idea of 'finding yourself' really is. Trying to make the old pieces and the now pieces fit together and make sense.
no subject
It's hardly as though these are Nadine's unique struggles. She knows enough about the people in her life to know that. Certainly enough about Geralt to know that surely he does - even if, perhaps, he doesn't exactly struggle.
"Sometimes it feels like all that stuff, everything before...like it happened to some other woman. Some stranger with my face and my life. I don't know if that's some kind of self-defense mechanism, separating oneself from one's past actions. It'd make sense, but...sometimes it's so far away, and sometimes it's so close, sometimes I feel so bad about it and sometimes I just...I don't know."
She shakes her head. It's so hard to put these thoughts and ideas into words. They're formless feelings, vaguely outlined concepts that seem so sure and certain in the unbound theater of her mind but defy any attempts to be corralled by language. The strange sense of unreality that comes on her sometimes, as though her own past was a movie or a storybook. Looking at her memories as though they were photos in someone else's album. The flux and shift between guilt and shame and just plain not caring. There are days when her past is so near to her and weighs on her like an anchor in her gut, and days when she shrugs it off as though all of it had meant nothing.
It can't have ever meant nothing.
Maybe this is just what that oft-referenced idea of 'finding yourself' really is. Trying to make the old pieces and the now pieces fit together and make sense.
"I just know I'm sick and tired of demons."