I do not write my own story. I'm not in a place where one of us is able to empower another person; subalternity has until now been our lived condition. I could never speak for María, rather she speaks through me. I am merely her fingers, her forefinger and her thumb.
My body will move across these pages, bleeding out her words.
"Don't start at the beginning," she wills, "never tell them about the beginning."
Like all good stories, we begin at the end, and work around in the spiral that is the true process of conscious thought. Meandering around the one point and making it back, the start will slip in via context. But how we got here does not matter.
In the end, Ted lies bleeding on our perfect rug, and we know we will be found.
No comments:
Post a Comment