It would be a grave mistake to share my story. Speaking of madness often gets one sent to sanitariums—as I know all too well. However the events of the past eat at me, devouring my thoughts during sun-dappled days. In turn, my nightmares grow strong, bloated on my fears, gaining from my sunlit loss.
If I can put these words down, share them, perhaps I can deprive them their power. I hope that by spreading them out, I diminish them. Like a chef diluting a potent wine with water, I am trying to dilute words and memories with more words and memories, drowning them in an ocean of minds. The thought that had stayed my hand thus far came upon me one night and I couldn’t get it out of my head. What if my story can be transmitted like a virus? What if it is using me to spread to new hosts. If that is the case, try to find it in your heart to forgive me but I can bear it no longer.
(Know this, it is not my intention to deceive but I am not sure how much I can trust myself.)
It all started on one summer’s eve . . .