We write stories about ourselves on our head. Even write and rewrite them, and tell that story to ourselves over and over again. The more we tell ourselves that same story, the more that story is enmeshed into our being. We then become that story. We could not possibly ube anything else. And the world continues to prove it to us over and over again.
I have a beast that lives inside me.
It is my story.
I’m not sure how to free it. Do I pry it out with a crowbar? Do I kill it with poison and let it eventually rot and then it will finally ooze through my pores like some putrid liquid rot? How about a pair of tweezers? Or those grabber things that people in wheelchairs use to reach the upper shelves?
Or maybe I learn to fine the parts of the beast that I love. One can love a beast. Thee are beautiful parts of all kinds of beings. I could name the beast. What is the name of my beast?
Gertrude? Gertie? Stan?