We personally rate our degree of crazy by ascertaining how closely our stories match up with the stories of those in whom we place the most value. It is how we survive in the circle: killing ourselves to survive. Guilt and fear engulf us when our narratives lack that blessed plagiarism, and perhaps its better in the end to endure it alone in silence rather than open yourself up for all to see. Even better, perhaps, to hide you from yourself. To compartmentalize the mind. And so scissor-happy hands within edit our story and bury the lost episodes deep in the dark, grim recesses of our minds where they rest in pieces, unmarked and abandoned.
Whatever; ‘tis all spilled milk. What we did is done. All was what it had to be. We had to kill ourselves to survive. Veil our soul beneath the soils we work and walk upon for the sake of lifetimes, tangled in an endless knot, feeling lost and stranded in the wrong time and place, a land in which you know somehow you will never really belong. And you don’t even know yourself.
Until their haunting and enchanting summons reach our ears and we submit to the liberation of the dead, or until we find them rising from their graves, even possessing us. Or perhaps all was quiet and well until the rich and wondrous earth elected to vomit them up herself without rhyme, reason or so much as a courteous warning.
Or perhaps we grab the shovel one moonlit eve, go a-digging all on our own.