I spoke, how do I say this, I spoke of this feeling, of which I can hardly describe. It is something deep inside of me, that I have always yearned to be free of, of this, I had thought it would be rid, as soon as something occurred. Perhaps this is why, as I spoke, I said, that I feel as if I have always been waiting. I do not have my own direction. This is not completely true, I find my direction. There have been so many plans,
There is a lovely woman of which, I was blessed enough to know, possibly even blessed enough to be loved by. This woman was 92 years old. I think of this now, she has watched an untold number of movies. It was a strange thought, to compare myself with such a different story as mine. But I think of her often in these days. My mind wanders, and I cannot believe, oh my goodness, that I have been so awfully blind. I have felt this insatiable need…but there is nothing in this, no truth, no consistent suffering will end this desire. There is no constant.
There was a movie in which the mother died, one or two or several of these, are movies that we watch, every so often, as is our custom, my daughter, the second oldest, she will cry and be completely without consonance. I hold her, and tell her pretend stories of other screen plays or perhaps books that I owned at one time or another that tell the real life ‘authentic’ story of this, which ever is the production at the moment, event, in which watching this thing, tragic and unbearable thing, that has brought her to tears, ends. I tell her of the end of ice age, where the mother meets them at the bottom of the pass. There are several other stories, lies yes, that I have told in order to stop the tremendous number of tears, that are genuine and never ending, had the lies not been told. My oldest daughter asked me, just tonight, she asked me, what would happen if I died. I had never thought to ask my parents, but I do remember the fear. I would wake up every morning with my father, perhaps 4 in the morning. And then return to bed with my mother. If I did not say that I loved them before they left, I would be left with a knot in my stomach that would not go away. It was a disgusting feeling. I have put these fears into my children, or allowed them to be placed there. Or allowed them the opportunity to form the concept. I sit here, at two thirty in the morning, and worry about dying alone. I will for certain, this is a sickening habit that I have formed, where I pour my guts out in front of a screen, begging for the attention of someone that will never be able to give it. There is no death at the end of my story. Not yet, I will not allow it. I will not sit in misery while I eat alone, or watch an untold number of movies alone. Alone is a very good place, where I love myself, and can be noone but myself. My children love every single thing in me. There is no bad, or judgmental topic, or dorky dance. Or horrible note of which I scream the wrong words to their favorite song, which they despise. There is not a time when they are frustrated without any hesitation and beat me until my guts fall to pieces. I am done with all of this, there will be no further seeking or endless trauma of which I cannot recover.