I came across a quote about writing; essentially that it offers society simply nothing if it does not conjure up tears, music or simply a life affirming notion in its process, and it has made me think as I lay in bed after dinner with sweet company tonight, and saying goodbye to lovely Lihi, that my life has already been lived and that no one has the say to state otherwise, unless they feel of my broken, childhood subsistence as it has manifested itself into adulthood.
When I was seventeen, I endured loneliness-prone divorce. My father lived unaware yet like half of a siamese twin, coherent and colorful beside me. I am now twenty-five, and though the lonesome teenager has grown on without me, I still have yet to finalize the disconnect between my parents. Like siamese twins, they lay coherent and colorful beside me, fragile and victimized.
When I met my first love, I was abandoned. When he met me, he was overflowing like my father's Miller Genuine Draft with happiness. Does the end of my forlorn day exist?
Why do resolutions survive like spring's hottest nail polish, and anguished children lay frayed like mother's 25-year-old bellbottoms?
I suppose seventeen will never see twenty-five, and twenty-five will always fall a casualty to it.
Suddenly I have seen, that the secret of living will always play this remembrance of cruel, thus usual punishment upon me, and no one, not even you, can pass judgment upon my dire need to dwell, unless you knew better than me, and as bluntly as I can speak about my emotional state of affairs in life, I can bluntly say that I would agree to put the past to rest if those who have requested that I keep my emotions bottled up, would find it in their right minds to comprehend this bittersweet state of fear that I have been compelled to endure. You don't know shit, until you can honestly say you do. You just do not know, period.
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