Monday, 17 December 2012


There must be a name for a state of mind suffered when a story is taken from you and retold in such a way as to twist the good in the story into bad.

A slow acting poison
Dropped into my coffee..

Feels like a light going out
A sense of loss and darkness
A sense of weakness
At first no awareness of the damage

As if something has been corrupted
A fragmentation

The very opposite of poesis

He told my story to another
What he said wasn't true

It was my story

He held forth on what had happened to me

Without knowing.

He had never known my version of the story

I did not change his version.
I sat there and agreed.
I felt uneasy but
I thought I was protecting the story...
By not contradicting
Allowing an official, ordinary edition to go out into the world..

Besides which
No one would believe me
This world prefers victims.

Nor do I have any desire to bring to light the true memories of something both precious and secret, now sealed in time.

There is no need.

Nothing is secret or hidden from myself
But the room in which these memories were kept had been sealed...
A sarcophagus

Now the door hangs open on broken hinges
The velvet covers that wrapped perfect moments has been torn off.
The gold and jewels scattered
The stars are fallen from the sky

It hurts
Is all I can say...

I'm hungry
Can't eat
Can't drink...

He had never known my version of the story
No one ever shall.

This is why we lie to ourselves

Everyone and everything will slip into oblivion
And the universe is too brutal
Stories weave magic between the blood and stones.

This is why we lie to our children
To protect them from stories that are too terrible
Showing the good and noble elements within tragedy...

Myths provide meaning

The sacred spider weaves her threads...