Words and Shadows

The glossy leather spine creaks, a melancholy sound of paper shredding and shards of memory fluttering to the floor. I’m tearing through journals today. Expunging memory, consigning it to the trash where it belongs.

The events of my life did not make me. Words made me. The tiny print of the Bible with ancient language and dour warnings of beasts from the sea. Stilted, agonizing death scenes where the character refused to die, or a queen of fairy falls in love with an ass or a son sees his father’s ghost, long passages that keep me awake at night when I fear to sleep. Playful tales of Tricksters and fire and punishment half-remembered like some ghostly oral-tale that maybe I didn’t hear, but my heart heard. Great loves and defeats, wars, tales of faery, these words made me and shaped me.

My own words were weak. Inadequate. I still thought then that events made a person. Now I know better, and creamy paper is tossed into the bin with a sigh of relief.

It is good to forget the useless things of the past, they are only misleading shadows.

It is time to write new words and make myself a new soul.

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