Chapter 1, Random Memories

Writing

I always think of ways to start off my story, maybe with some witty intro about how I’ve grown and become a man through many trials and tribulations. Better yet a metaphorical anthem that represented the person I am today. I can’t muster the words from within myself to define who I am just yet. Maybe after all of this is written and done I can feel a bit better.

January 14, 1994 1:48pm

I come into existence as most children do, blood and sweaty cheeks, odors fill the air and relief is incredibly present in the room. The doctors weigh me my doctors weigh me. My middle name given by my grandmother, the first and last matching my fathers, my identity established I am now alive, I am living breathing child. All of the months of burden finally relieved from my mother’s body. My father’s seed finally came to life. Happy faces and joy are within the room.

Yet only a foul word can describe what I am.

Bastard

I don’t have a lot of great childhood memories that I haven’t already repressed within myself. I have dreams of the times we were at my grandmothers for a few nights and then all of sudden it started snowing my brother and I went outside and started to run and dance. It was an unforgettable day, the day I started to love the cold nights and chilling flakes that fell from the sky. They became precious diamonds to me like a never ending treasure laid to the ground for me to find joy within in.

It didn’t snow one December it was as if the snow had left me to be alone that winter. I don’t remember how old I was, all I remember was a constant phrase being repeated within the back of my head “It’s so cold, yet it won’t snow” I thought that maybe the clouds and sky were partially functional maybe they just ran out of snow. What did I know back then I was young and I hated school.

Recently given the glorious gift of bad vision I had my first pair of glasses, the cold air and the warm breath that I exhaled while cupping my hands in between some gloves created this white fog upon my frames that blinded me. I liked it so I kept playing with my frames breathing onto the lenses making a game out of it as if I were the master of the fog.

But I’ll never forget the days I spent home because I hated school and I hated being around people so much that I never wanted to go school. I was tired of feeling so unloved in elementary school so when my grandmother left home I’d stay inside, and eat some hot pockets and watch Tom and Jerry for hours. This was salvation from the torment of dealing with a demonic teacher with no resolve.

I’ve always wondered ever since I was little, what would my life be like if I spoke to my mother before she died, or I actually got to know my father and love him. What would I be? I hate to ask myself such questions because they always lead into these depressive cycles where shadows surround me. Creeping up slowly behind as I walk and pace within my mind, they reach out daggers drawn and eyes angled. That feeling of your own thoughts attacking you excites me it makes me want to lose myself even more so I can feel the exhilaration of the thought of losing myself and becoming something thoughtful and magnificent. Their arms are slowly reaching toward me I stand still staring down into to the shadows trying to find some thought process or meaning to them I don’t see anything just blood stained daggers and cunning glances into my own self. I don’t know why I chose to look into the past hoping to have a moment appear before me in some extravagant mirror and show me all of the things I hoped. Maybe I’m simply a child at heart. Hoping for some magical event to happen just because I imagined it but I still do that to this very day I hope that something magical will happen to change the way I see things.

 

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