IT WAS THEN I UNDERSTOOD

When I was a child my mother would sit me on her knee and tell me stories till I fell asleep. Often, later, I would wake in my cot. I would grip its bars and scream for release like a prisoner. And sometimes I would escape, only to be returned to my cage.

Hence my increasing aversion to anything but the briefest of narratives, and my refusal to read novels. Because narratives send me to sleep, only for me to wake up in a cage from which there is no true escape.

]+>Cyborg