talking about it

Talking to my dad and Barbara over runny eggs in the Europejski hotel and the conversation turns to Kaycee, of all things. It turns to trust and honesty, public and private, internal and external.

And dad asks, "Did you write last night?"

And for this moment they both look at me.

"Yeah," I say. I wrote. But not anything I'm going to share with anyone. Not for a long time.

I say, "I can't talk about it without talking about It. And if I don't want to talk about It, I can't say anything at all." It makes sense in my head, but when it comes out it sounds like gibberish.

And that, really, is the point.

I can't talk about any of this yet. It would all sound like Kaycee, a fake person trying to play your heart strings. Or yet another fucking holocaust documentary with numbers so large they don't mean anything anymore. The Lifetime movie of the week that is my life.

I can't do it. I can't make sense of it yet. Even writing, my salvation, my way of exerting control over the chaos, even writing is failing me.

I can't talk about it without talking about It. And if I don't want to talk about It, I can't say anything at all.

Today we leave for Krakow.

(No posting this time, thanks.)

{ 1:41am }