There is a place in the well for unfinished stories. Drop them in and stir them up. It is a storage area for emotions too dangerous to feel. The ax falls but I am too frightened to acknowledge that it has dropped, to feel its pain, so I banish it to the well. And it bubbles and it brews and it strengthens over the years. It is poison.
Is there a place safe enough to reveal the well? To feel the well? It is not easy to feel safe and to trust. The well has been guarded for so long and so vigilantly.
I am sadness... I want someone else to do it for me. I am anger. I know I am the one who must.
I’ve used the well.
I’ve used the well to test men. I set them up and they never fail me. I watch them fall.