I like to believe I am very much a realist, despite my complaints, misgivings, and sins.
I remind myself often. “Be kind. Be malleable, but above all: be respectful.”
There is nothing worse than someone too rigid to accept meager suggestions.
In my effort to deliver respect, one could say I’m obsequious, so obligingly servile that it’s annoying, but that attitude derived from a genuine aptitude for goodness.
See, Good boys get maligned with inimical bedfellows. For their loyalty, they almost certainly take abuse.
Eventually, hurt jumps past pride and takes a one-way train to derision.
The inimical person commands respect when ironically, such a person’s example is a farce.
I read a book that proclaimed God is not a party to confusion. And Godly people declared that my confused situations were not as I thought.
Time passed and more defiantly… my spirit went aloof
I became capricious when I learning my misgivings were not conjecture. I had been a dupe.
I let my complaisance and my “disability” be a security blanket and a weight. Then, like a maxim in Proverbs my diffidence sealed my fate.
I’m still learning forgiveness. I was so Linus, not Charlie Brown. Knowledge is dung if you leave it stuck at bay. Stories are experience. I wish I had more right now.
The father I treasured is gone now. The years and years drag on now.
I’m still a realist. Therapy and Friendship re-cataloged, re-ordered, and revised my loves.
I think now: What an endless bit of life is there, in poets and artists and plays!
I thought back to high school. What a bombastic lie?
For a moment, I visited the demons in my high school class’s song. Then, I contemplated and stopped and thought along. Had the voters for the class of 2002 identified some loss that strangled our group?
Was I too heady and malcontent to see?
Maybe subconsciously I wished someone was “here” just like Pink Floyd had wrought?
Yes, I remember. Reader, you’re probably thinking I digressed but I truly a have a point.
See, I’m an English Major now, even with all that contentious lament. I found a vocation, and got back up again.
I was truly a lost soul in high school, I barely passed my tests. Now, I’m on the precipice of being less perplexed. We need stories. Stories fill the gap. In English, we analyze stories. We treat them like a map. Stories are not made to be read and thrown away.
Stories are now my vocation. I’m a writer. Stories can be changed. My life today confirms: A monologue is an exercise in futility without a compelling audience.