Who here has written such a tale that can only be told through a broken veil of unknowing?
That's the story right there. Waiting to climb into your bed while tucking your feet snug under it's restful blanket type of comfort. Be still. Don't wake the insight that is laying quietly around your toes. The memories dangling themselves inside your mind are there just the way you asked them not to be. But as long as you are clever and silent enough you'll be allowed to explore just how deep the insight can go.
No there's no talk of the dastardly animals guiding you to a place of confusion. No our ego has way more resources at it's fingertips to bring us crumbling downward all by itself. We just give it the energy it needs to keep the nonsense going. That's our own fault. No one else is to blamed for our silly antics.
I digress. This is what happens when you try to write the story of writing. It's one that is never ending and continuously evolving and forever beginning. But where else are we going to start or venture out toward finding the story of writing if we don't attempt it.......