Two years ago, I read a story. A story that I like to tell anyone willing to hear. Every time I tell the story, I learn something new about it, understand it slightly more than I did before.
The story is disturbing and tends to bother the listeners, just as it bothered me. Surprised I am to know that it still does.
If ever it stops bothering me, what will I do without it, without the weight of its questions on my heart, without the blaze of its fire. I’m growing to love it as I tell how it unrooted the tranquil my mind.
It’s not the story of fear, not the story of pain, not one of inflicted shame nor one of loss. Wouldn’t it be easy otherwise?
The story ended in the book only to begin in me. And now it can’t find its resting place.
A wall of my room carries a dark sheet of shadow. The shadow is of the pillar on which my roof rests. In the night they gather; they come together, they bear the smell of existence. In the day, the wall is half alive, barren as a question.
There is no end to it. There will never be.