Every Word I Write

And so this morning, I went for a ride, trying to find that freedom, trying to think of nothing, and I passed Barney, standing miserably at the end of his driveway, the best part of his life over, nothing but suffering and sadness ahead, the crows circling overhead waiting for him to die—and I thought of my mother. I thought of the way she used suffering as a form of control, of how guilty I feel even today for wanting nothing more than to simply express myself, of how much I have been made to worry, still, that every word I write and every thing I say will only cause her pain.

And I thought, Fuck you, Barney.

I pedaled away, my lungs filling with breath, the tires humming beneath me, and for the next two hours, thought of nothing.

Shalom Auslander

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