There is never a slaughter in which one person does not come out of it to tell the tale. Out of the slaughter, the survivor must learn to travel away from the guilt, to live side by side with it in time. Time is the road we must all travel upon, even if to some it appears blood red.
There should be, I think, some setting of the stage or manifesto of purpose, but, alas, I cannot wait a moment longer. Paris is grander and more awe-inspiring than in all my imaginings and it is here I know I must regale to you the events that have transpired. A myth only lasts as long as there is someone to tell it, so my knowledge must be passed on to keep the past alive. This is the nature of things.
The story is within me, this recollection that I am compelled to unfold. My life, my tragedies, my triumphs, struggles and losses. I have very little choice but to record what has happened, to at least purge the demons that drive me. So I put the disc into the Laptop and begin to write the story of my life.
Do not attempt to link the past events in one single coherent line. I have not. Life is not linear. Like all people, some events in my life were more significant than others.
Awareness of certain truths can in themselves be a curse.
This is the curse of my memory.