I've for a while now wanted to write the tale of my life. Its a story worth telling yet i hide it mostly and only unveil it when i feel it benefits the other person more than the memories awakening could ever hurt me. There's been so many versions;
The vague one:
He sat under a tree, a piece of grass between his lips. H e gazed out into nothingness, the dry land around him seemed sad but it was his home. He's made it far enough to have himself most of what everyone wanted. The African sun smiled from the heavens and he smiled back from under his favorite tree. He remembered the time of the war when he'd run in the dry savanna, camp to camp, with messages from the majors to his battalions of the best strategy to take back the land, the soil. I watched him from within the house. I wouldn't dare try to get too close. It was odd watching my own father...
The Silly One:
Its like i had to be a boy to be the greatest daughter to him. I wanted so much to be out of his way such that i felt being extra-good was my invisible potion. I'd just rather sit under the dinning room table watching the different shaped feet sweep by. I'd sit for our making up things that didn't matter, making up stories in my head of the unfounded happiness i had created. I'd get my sister to join and to join me. we'd whisper our found legend of the Purple Carrot...
There is however the true one. A sad truth un-twerked for my audience. One that is as it should, as it was. The one i worry when read many would find very...tricky to relate to me. The sad truths though i write in gasps. Little breathes taken at an interval of unexpectedness.
It didn't matter that he loved me. It wouldn't matter. I didn't love him. Not really anyway. I only could survive by being a puppet. The one who has to take the sacrifice of their own joy and freedom for their own survival, existence. I sat in the dirt, slightly hungry. I thought i should have had my breakfast, there would be no other meal for me until after 10am. Snacks were not particularly for us, the kids, says my step-mom. I didn't care. She wasn't who i worried about. It was my father or rather that which was within him...
The vague one:
He sat under a tree, a piece of grass between his lips. H e gazed out into nothingness, the dry land around him seemed sad but it was his home. He's made it far enough to have himself most of what everyone wanted. The African sun smiled from the heavens and he smiled back from under his favorite tree. He remembered the time of the war when he'd run in the dry savanna, camp to camp, with messages from the majors to his battalions of the best strategy to take back the land, the soil. I watched him from within the house. I wouldn't dare try to get too close. It was odd watching my own father...
The Silly One:
Its like i had to be a boy to be the greatest daughter to him. I wanted so much to be out of his way such that i felt being extra-good was my invisible potion. I'd just rather sit under the dinning room table watching the different shaped feet sweep by. I'd sit for our making up things that didn't matter, making up stories in my head of the unfounded happiness i had created. I'd get my sister to join and to join me. we'd whisper our found legend of the Purple Carrot...
There is however the true one. A sad truth un-twerked for my audience. One that is as it should, as it was. The one i worry when read many would find very...tricky to relate to me. The sad truths though i write in gasps. Little breathes taken at an interval of unexpectedness.
It didn't matter that he loved me. It wouldn't matter. I didn't love him. Not really anyway. I only could survive by being a puppet. The one who has to take the sacrifice of their own joy and freedom for their own survival, existence. I sat in the dirt, slightly hungry. I thought i should have had my breakfast, there would be no other meal for me until after 10am. Snacks were not particularly for us, the kids, says my step-mom. I didn't care. She wasn't who i worried about. It was my father or rather that which was within him...
No comments:
Post a Comment