I have no idea why I write this shit down.
Years ago, these were the thoughts that haunted me. They followed me around as if taunting me, reminding me of the many reasons I'd never be like all of the other boys. Them, with their perfect families, perfect eyes and perfect lives.
Not that I know anything about their lives. Hell, it took me thirty years to even start to really get to know my own life. I'd spent so many years trying to run from it, only to find I'd dragged it along every step of the way. But as the years did pass, the load seemed to lighten itself, and the tales of woe become just that - tales. Stories told more from the emotional perspective of the narrator than that of the main character.
At least, that's how it feels to tell them now.
These tales don't hurt me now. But that doesn't make them any less dark. Especially the next entry ("April, 1983").
Actually, I do know why I write these things down. I write them down because they're interesting stories. They're real. And there must be a happy ending around here somewhere, because here I am today, a happy man.
A few sad stories won't deny me a happily ever after.
Well said!::::: | July 12, 2005 2:23 PM
Thank you for sharing the April, 1983 story. Whenever I see a story in the news about a child who is caught in the middle of a nasty custody battle, I always say a littlle prayer for them because it seems so traumatic and bleak for the child. I pray that they are able to find some happiness someday and your posts are a reminder that it is possible.::::: | July 19, 2005 3:20 AM