As I’m about to tell it to you, I realize that this current secret story has (of course) to do with the other secret story, the one I’m obviously too ashamed to tell. The one that includes the scene in which I wake up after a 12 hour alcoholic blackout with my life smashed into a million pieces. During all this time, after all these posts, I kept meaning to relate the sad and beautiful sequence of events that went down on that cold and blank winter’s morning. The quote unquote fucked up story of how all my drug and drinking shit came to a grinding halt...

I come close, but it always ends in self-sabatoge. I can't bring myself to hit Publish.

For awhile I deluded myself into believing that the things I wanted most to put into words would just blossom forth by their own accord if I hung around long enough and kept trying.

As if anything happens on its own.

As if anyone ever got anywhere by trying.

I told myself I was getting closer, closer still, but all I was doing was climbing up and down the same prison tree.

At the end of the day each one of us is a tree of secrets with interconnecting branches and waving, overlapping lies for leaves.

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