On the surface an intelligible lie.
It is autumn, and I pretend I've dreaded her arrival
while secretly welcoming the season of reflection and nostalgia.
I find excuses to turn everything off and sit silently in the dark, breathing.
only in autumn do I find this space,
For the soul, for the heart.
Autumn asks questions.
I know that searching the past for solutions for the future is futile
asking the same old questions makes you find the same answers,
perhaps mistaking them for brand new.
Still (I quote):
It was not I who did those things;
cut the knot, jemmied the door, made off with goods not mine.
The door was open.
True, he did not exactly open it himself. His butler opened it for him.
His name was Boredom. He said 'Boredom, fetch me a plaything'.
He said 'Very well', and putting on his gloves so that the finger prints would not show,
he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.
I still struggle with guilt and blame.
Sometimes I play the heroine in the playback version. Sometimes the witch.
Mostly, I am one of the extras, wishing I was allowed on stage.
Then I remember, this is fiction.
They say if you repeat a lie enough times it becomes true.
But they never tell you what happens when you replay the truth.
I repeated it until all the real elements faded away,
and stripped of all truth it can no longer harm me.
You can no longer harm me
and I no longer want to harm you.
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