Every moment alters what came before. We reach across layers of time for the memories of their memories.
It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.
I realize that, although I have confessed this truth several times, I still live my life as if I were writing it, and write my life as if I were living it. This has many advantages and many downfalls. I want to write an ending. Intro, climax, resolution. As if even a one-night stand is so simple. As if I can put an entire history into a drawer–send it off to a publisher–move on.
Several people have told me that I shouldn’t even be meeting with Haven. I struggle to not defend. And not defend myself against the conditions put on me. Of course I never was planning on recording anything. If I asked you to agree not to kill me, I would only be worried for my safety if you weren’t offended.
The truth is? I offered to not write about it. I was desperate. I had been trying to be heard for… Well, you know. They added more to the list, not recognizing that as the complete act of sacrifice and surrender that it was. I have surrendered, I have forgiven, I have lost… I am the only one with conditions on my existence.
The constraint of writing something without writing about it is an interesting one. Believe it or not, I still look for silver linings. But I believe I have done my share of searching.
At least I no longer let someone else write it. If I were truly simply not responsible (as is claimed), I would have gone over everything I did that my gut told me not to, but a Haven leader told me I should do.
Reader, I haven’t mentioned one.
Reader, can you live a story and write it simultaneously?
I gave up on erasing it–that is a start. I fear there is no ending. Hallelujah-oh fuck.
But please do not lecture me on what I should do unless you were there from the beginning.
Hint–you weren’t. Nor was I. This is why I have gone backwards.
Reader, trust me, I have wanted to give you the exit sign you have grown to expect.
Apparently it lead nowhere.