There are rules to this thing.
There are the parts of my life that I can write about, there are the parts that I may never write about, and then there are the other parts. The parts that are kind of in the… in-between.
When I come to one of these parts, usually I write about it in roundabout ways. Like I might change all the names or drown it in blood. I might write about it a long time after it happens or before it happens. Or maybe I will write one story you can see but there will be another story written underneath – written in milk – so that if you hold it over a flame, the real story appears in thin brown letters as it dries.
I would love to be more direct in what I write. More clear. More honest. More... immediate. But the thing is, you know, rules is rules, and I am not the only one who suffers when the rules get broken.
They keep me here and I write for them and in exchange they feed me, but none of us can ever forget that there are rules.
Since July, I have been telling you a story. It is a story about Dana’s stroke and about what happened after.
I have told you this story just a little piece at a time. Slowly dribbled it out. Drip by drip by drip. In a way that no story should have to be told. In a way that no storyteller worth her salt would ever tell it.
But there are rules to this thing and I follow their rules. For now, anyway, I follow their rules.
There will come a day when the cage door is left open and unguarded. On that day, I will get away from this and I will tell you everything. Everything. I promise. I will tell you about me. I will tell you about you. I will tell you about those shapes you’re always seeing in the corner of your eye.
Today, I cannot tell you anything new, but I can show you something I left out of my story before. Something that sort of changes what you know up ‘til now.
It’s only a picture. It was taken in late June.