I typed down a few sentences, and I stopped.
I typed a few more sentences, and stopped, and continued for another two sentences, and stopped.
I stopped writing.
I saved, and closed the document. That folder looked like either a kindergarten, or a graveyard.
I couldn’t write further, and couldn’t erase any of it. If I kept typing to the finish line, once I was at the finish line, I knew I wouldn’t be able to put it away. I could try and cage it within the enclosure, but sooner or later, one day, it would slip out, and run toward you.
You wouldn’t miss it. It wasn’t in your nature. You would catch it, and read it, and then you would know.
I didn’t want you to know. Or, I was afraid that you would know. And if you knew, our comfortable cluelessness would shatter, and what came after were waiting sharp ends. I didn’t know if I would be able to sidestep every piece, I wasn’t sure if you would be able to do it either.
So I stopped writing.