The Surrounding Bricks are not a Castle

Revelations Repeat Themselves

I grew up in a house full of self-help books.

No, that’s a lie. I did not grow up in a house. We lugged the books from apartment to apartment, repeatedly packing and unpacking boxes of flat paperbacks about the healing power of crystals, finding the light, and finding your purpose, along with mass market copies of Dianetics, Self Analysis, and The Way to Happiness.

You Can Heal Your Life and Your Erroneous Zones were standards on my mother’s nightstand, along with the true crime books she loved.

There’s no such thing as a dead end, only a border.