I get up close and personal with the lies I tell myself daily. I take off my shoes and get cozy. I curl up with the fictional pages of my life and wonder what I'll use as a bookmark. The ticket stub from the movie we saw together to escape the desert heat? The movie was foreign and so were you. None of our languages made sense. Maybe I can use the coupon for detergent I'll never buy as my bookmark. Why not use something clean to hold my place among the stained? Or I can always just remember, though I'm prone to forget.
And then I pick up the book and flip through the pages only to finally see that they are blank. What is the plot? Who are the characters? Where is the surprise twist at the end? Does somebody get tied to the tracks? Was it all just a dream? Who's the real villain behind the mask? The butler? I was too focused on where I wanted to pause that I failed to realize I never began.
But silence screams off the page just as much as letters that form words do, if not more. My life has been caught in a snowstorm, apparently. What has been buried in the blizzard will stay there until I get out my shovel and start to dig.
Where did the snow begin? When will it end?