I allude to it, hint at it, outline it and dance around it. There is so much story, so much history behind what I write.  But its dark and ugly. I don’t like inviting it in. I  feel like I have to claw myself to the surface for fresh air every few seconds after I “jump in”. If I do decided to share, I’m in need a long shower, a warm bed, long nap and my scruffy dumb puppy to soothe my heart.  It’s a formidable and invisible enemy. I don’t give it a chance to breathe for fear it might grow into a larger or more powerful story than I can handle.  Sometimes stories are better left buried. Sometimes.