Past stories can't hurt you. Stories set in the here and now are more problematic. I cruise through the I did this and I did that with a passing glance. Plenty of space between me and that. No bumping up against, or maybe once but I bumped and pushed away and righted myself.
Now we are here.
I kid myself into thinking that if I punch through the veneer then I will be down to the same stuff that everyone can relate to, all the messy guts of life, foul smelling, rank. My thesis is that I will bring you with me, because surely it is the same for all, this aching mix of fear and anger, this pit of emotional turmoil. Cess pit.
But the difference between us is that I am all demons. No angels. The shame of it. I imagine we are similar, but we are not. There is something amis with me. I am the spiked coil of armour that I have inherited. It is genetic, some tragedy of biology which quarantines me. Which is fair. I know it. I may be mad but I am not yet delusional.