inside out

The story's inside me.
I can feel it:
a heartbeat,
breath.

I know it's there
but it's shifty:
wind.

Yet there's a solidity to it;
a form that's too immense
to comprehend,
to grasp.
I can't get my arms around it,
underneath it.

My story is a wind-blown boulder,
it's most illusive facet:
I can't get inside it.

I won't be able to
coax the story out
until I decipher the maze,
become Theseus
or even better Daedalus:
redesign the labyrinth.

The difficulty:
how to birth the story.

Revelation:
It cannot be told until,
rather than the story being inside me,
I'm inside the story:
living it
breathing it
stamping it on the page.