Telling my story, I wait and scratch
at the surface until the last moment
when, breezing through, hitting only
high points and squeezing them down,
is this fiction created. Somehow,
a story is fabricated, all myth,
and then translated into a language
that others understand but so far
from what remains of the truth
as it happened. Chopped and trimmed
to fit into comprehensible categories,
the events lose color and detail,
lose the long dull endlessness of waiting
for life to continue with what it is
going to do, waiting for morning.
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