During my adolescence, I made a most magical little discovery in my bedroom:
A loose floorboard hiding a cavity about as deep and almost as wide as my arm.
The discovery awakened in me something desperate and primal.
For years, I acted like a beast preparing for hibernation, squirreling away secrets for my ever-present winter.
Is that where it all went?
I lived in such emotional squalor despite my hoarded wealth. Thirteen was such a bloody year. Every rainfall was a tropical storm, every heartbreak a head-on collision.
I prayed but did not believe, hungered and never ate. I hated and hate the joy of others.
That old house was gutted this year, and with it went Pandora’s jar. I knew it without knowing; The aim was true, a knife buried all the way to the hilt.
I have never really known love. I have known only shadows. I have known fleeting whims and flits of fancy, impure attachments.
No, that’s not quite right. I have known one love, but I did not call it love when first I saw it.
I know again what I knew at ten: That I have the makings of a god. Life is so circular.
Our bags are packed. We’ll hit the road in five. I will find it all again.
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