story sharing

water in the tank —
enough, at the moment, to
keep my ship afloat
— do not ask what would happen
if it all came pouring out

A poem/dream about the dangers of telling one’s story. Maybe the artificiality of living as only half a person, with one’s story untold, holding everything in — maybe this is somehow to be preferred than letting it all pour out. I do believe it’s possible to find a middle way, and share stuff in moderation. But the dream showed the walls of the tank being pulled down and the water pouring out and the ship presumably foundering.


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