I think and I write.
I pace, and I write.
I pull memories from the place I had buried them, a painful process that has me slumping my shoulders in defence and denial, and I put them to paper.
Can I do this? I must do this.
Not for posterity, and not as I have claimed for my children. No I must do this for me. I must finally be allowed to speak about what my life has been and what I needed to do to survive, ultimately intact.
And so I write, my fingers punching and punishing the keys while the anger and feelings rise up to the surface until I think I will go mad. I pull at my hair and try and ease my tightened muscles.
Then for the first time in a long time I shut down, a veil that simply takes the feelings away and I am calm. So calm.
That in itself is a warning that I have overstayed my time in the past.