Imagine, that one day your favorite stories
stopped being told, and you, who had never
aspired to be a story-teller, seemed to be
the only one left who remembered them.
You tried to repeat them to children and
friends, but grew confused, leaving out important
passages, doubling back to reiterate irrelevant
details, forgetting the outcome altogether.
Imagine with each repetition the stories grow
more garbled, the perspective more kaleidoscopic,
so that insignificant backgrounds, perhaps the
pajamas you wore when first hearing it,
overshadow everything else and you grow to hate
your own meanderings, the smell of your
own wet frustration.

¶ 5:59 AM