~About Jan 2008~
He finished his story, it was an interesting ending. Something I wish he hasn’t experienced. There was a round of applause, conversation moves on. An image on the paper next to me, a friend captured the tranquility in his features quite well. He’s off in a zone lost in thought, lost in himself. He sees the two of us looking at him. I don’t think he knows why we are. Pulled into conversation he talks a bit and turns away to go back to alone. I cannot help but wonder, “What you would be doing if drugs were not around. Or if you gave them up. I know they have molded you. But I wonder if you had the choice and the purpose, would you abandon what you know? Is it possible to have the purpose anymore?”
My English is changing. Along with my soul. I write what I see in a different way than before. I finally accept my life and I am writing how it is with the colors added in, rather than writing of the colors and making them my own. He listens and watches, talking intermittently. But I wonder his thoughts, if there are any in his head. The story written is a great one, the story tells of a world I will never know. I just can’t help but feel remorse that he had to be thrown into it and know it as his own.
It is a great story for books; it is a great story to temporarily pretend is ones own. But to live it, not something I would want for my own life. But if no one lived like that, where would imagination have the potential to take us later? In the end people must go through that for one reason or another. However, I selfishly wish that I never have to meet those people and know that that pain is real and part of them. I selfishly wish to be sheltered and wish I had a wing to carry over them. Class is over and he walks out the door with the rest of them. I briefly wonder if he will make it back.
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