I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t get up—just couldn’t get up, couldn’t get up or leave. All day lying in that median, unable. Was this misery or joy?
It’s happened to you, too, hasn’t it? A habit or phase, a marriage, a disease, children or drugs, money or debt—something you believed inescapable, something that had been going on for so long that you’d forgotten any and every step taken to lead your life here. What did you do? How did this happen? When you try to solve the crossword, someone keeps adding clues.
It’s happened to us all. The impossible knowledge is the one we all want—the big why, the big how. Who among us won’t buy that lotto ticket? This is where stories come from and, believe me, there are only two kinds: one, naked lies, and two, pot holders, gas masks, condoms—something you must carefully place between yourself and a truth too dangerous to touch.