The open envelope betrays the tampering I suspect. Too bad my critics are snooping, not my supporters. When they are finished tearing open my mail, they tear me apart as well. Shredded, I feel unable to handle further correspondence. I shut down communications. There is no channel for benefactors to travel. My champions are at a loss to defend me from my opponents; the struggle flounders. Misunderstanding the meaning of messages, I have been mocked and enslaved. I would love to vanquish my foes, but you see I am opening my own mail.
Ask often all the questions.
The Story as a Stowaway
I want to tell you a story,
but I want to tell it to you quickly,
so I can give it to you and then you can carry it
on your way, for what good is my story to you
if you must leave it where it lay?
Your need to be elsewhere presses on us both
and I wish to give you what you can take rather than
to try to stall you here for an epic you might never lift
and certainly not dream of dragging along.
I want you to be on your way
and take a part of me with you.
I wish to sew myself in your mind;
tether my tale to your soul.
I believe in forward motion and the need to carry on.
Where you’re going I can’t go on my own
but I know that if I am funny, quick and lite,
part of me goes even to the end of your world
and my hope is to help you make it bright.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault