You told me to write it all down. You told me it would make me feel better to release the grip I had on the past, to let it flow out of me in a stream of words, because words can heal. But like I said before, words have only hurt me so far. That’s why I have boarded up the windows that provided a glimpse into the wretched house I ruminate in. Too many have walked past in ignorant disinterest. Some have glanced in its direction with passive curiosity or a willful arrogance. A few have wandered to the front stoop to sit for a while in contemplation only to leave exasperated. One knocked, and I let him in. What a disaster we made of it. He left and the door slammed. I don’t know by whose hand. Maybe both. And I vowed I’d never share so much of my shelter again. So I stopped writing. I holed up. Anxious and adulterated. Stubborn in my solitude. Detached from the very idea that one could give anything without losing everything.

While we may disagree on this front I am obliged to give it a chance. You have not led me astray yet so it may turn out just the way you proposed, and if it doesn’t I’ll feel vindicated in proving you wrong for the first time in the course of our time together.

It used to pour out of me like a faucet, straight from the tap, unfiltered and pure. Constant and overflowing. It used to be easy. And now it’s not. I’m all clogged up.

But I will snake the drain. And maybe my congested memories will start to trickle out in words and phrases. I will gather them, piece them together, and make something of my pain, my worry, my hopes, my regrets…

My hands grasp at the memories, scared of breaking again.