The trail, Monsieur, is a decoy. It does not reveal my whereabouts, or my perspective. I could be elsewhere in the terrain where it is dense and dark and dangerous. You would never guess from my notes and messages. I could be escaping from our field of connections, and yet appear to be available, even stable. If you could know what maintaining these appearances cost you might be surprised.
But this is how I deal with my capricious interior.
Even with falling away, I remain close.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
-oh, writing process- on Metaphor
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