Borders

It is harder to kill a phantom than a reality.

Virginia Woolf

By the way, there is one Haven memory I have keep meaning to write…

Standing outside the door of a leader’s room. You don’t have to just stand there, you can come in, she said…

I stood part way between, the glass door half way open, one foot on the ledge. I stayed there.

On the border between Canada and the States, an officer asked if the man driving really was my dad. He asked me directly, clearly suspicious.

I paused. I paused just for long enough to write a story. But I said yes.

I have been on those borders for a long time, never having the courage to even ask which side I wanted to be on but which side would take me.

I paused as a way to say, I know the script but it is not mine.

I have stood on other ledges too. Borderline, the personality, used to mean the border between psychosis and neurosis.

I tried to jump off that one but alas, madness was less for me than I thought. I was trained that madness was a skill and may be the only one offered to me at birth. That it was a skill that was highly rewarded.

The pause always says the most.

Referring to borderline will ultimately give people the wrong idea but I have already jumped off that one, that one that knows better than to write too much that others will misinterpret.

But still says too little. Or too much in pauses.

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