Sometimes I find it helpful to imagine I’m a character in a book and to try to guess what I’ll do next. I’m easier to understand when I’ve been tidied up for literary purposes. The jungle of my history becomes a small, neat grove that no one could possibly get lost in; silt filters from the muddy, churning water of my motives and I look down to see the clearly marked channel on the river bottom. “Ah, so that’s who I am!” I murmur as I pick my way through, across, over, straining to see on the horizon the city of my imagination, the place where I’ll spin straw into gold, choose the right box, find the key that fits the door to the room that’s been locked all these years. But when the sun goes down on that blurry horizon the clear way disappears, and when I turn in my mind to the end of the book to try to read my fate, the remaining pages are as discouragingly blank as ever. And what’s more, the beginning of the story is never quite as I remembered it either.
you hear the thunder
before I do