Draft 1

I’ve known for three years now what I needed to do.

It’s been sitting inside me, on the edge of myself .

Not being able to get it out , makes everything else ugly , and knotted. Makes it sound wrong.

I’ve tried so many times to write it.

Every time

I can not.

I don’t know if it’s because you won’t believe me, or because I am afraid that I won’t find the words to make it real for you. For you to feel it. For you to hear it.

There is a solitude in our story.

I don’t know the why.

Or the question.

I don’t know the answers.

I don’t have many witnesses left, that can tell you it all happened exactly like I will remember it.

I know that you, like all humans, have never really known anyone that has told you the truth.

You’ve probably never met anyone that has seen outside themselves, that knew the colors. That could tell the story knowing all the stories, that saw the world with everyone’s eyes.

Here is my first risk ,

I can.

I can tell you my story, and you can believe me.


I think…

That we all understand that some of us are born different.

Or maybe each of us is unique in an extrodinary way, that we rarely share with each other. That we hide from each other. I would love to believe that.

I apologize,

All I know of other human beings, is what they have shown me.

What humans have shown me, makes me believe that not all of us are born like others are born.

I am always willing to be wrong , Of course, you have to be.

I believe that leaves me in a state of wrongness, at all times. Some sort of wrongness, In the least.

One of the very few sure things.


I just realized what makes art great .

It is the revealing of our truest selves.

It is in that willingness and ability to get as pure as possible , that makes what we bleed out beautiful to other people. Writing, painting. Music. Singing , dance. Every kind of self expression.

Nothing you make will resonate with anyone else unless you become who you truly are. Unless you show your innermost self. Unless you believe, in who you are enough to share.


Every human being is a mess. On the inside .. we do so much posturing , we want so badly to be sure , to feel that security in all things.. but to be human, it’s one big contradiction.

For every axiom,

I have one or two or ten more , that are different but the same. The intersect, and contradict, and dispel.

I think that is the curse of being a human being , we all are all half a lie.

Our human self is constantly at odds with divine self. They can never mesh. There is no mutual ground. They hit each other again and again, and this is why we are so confused , so meek. Why we second guess ourselves, and we don’t know what to do, so much of the time. Our human self is vying with our spiritual side , one is drowning the other out but the drowning one, is fighting for life. For breath. Always inside us.

Who I am, reaches like branches all the way back, to my father and mother and their father and mother and their fathers and mothers.

Being not like many others , runs in my family. There are so many stories, extraordinary stories, passed down to me. There is something in my blood. Maybe a curse. I really am not sure.

I know I come from a long line of people who didn’t do what was expected of them at the time. Now when we tell the stories, my ancestors are heroes. But at the time of the stories, they were outcasts. Further back, when life was simple, my ancestors were kings.

We traced one line of my family, and found out I was related to some famous names. William the Conqueror and Charlemagne. A distant cousin of Princess Diana.

I don’t know what that means. I only know it’s real.

The day I was born, we had the biggest blizzard of the century in my state. The snow was so cold and the wind so strong, that my dad had to carry my grandmother from the car to our front door. Like a bride over the threshold.

Do we all have stories of the first moments we were born, or just me?

My parents told me that I was placed in my fathers arms and I looked in his eyes and stopped crying and smiled. Like we knew each other. I was born knowing.

I can still hear his voice , smell his breath, when he tells me the story. My entire body is in memory. I remember so much the way my father smelled to me, the way his skin felt to me.

My ears tune into exactly his pitch, the way he says my name , my nick name when I was young. I see his smile. His teeth. His gesture.

My father is forever imprinted perfectly in me. The most intimate details of him, scarred permanently into me. Almost as if DNA is a thing that awakens in us. That is alive.

He would become my best friend. Evolved from hero. To knight In shining armor, to fallen hero. To enemy.

But it took a long time for my father to turn on me.

Most little girls think of their dad like that. Like a hero, a knight in shining armor.

Imagine having a dad, who really was a hero. Who really could fight like a knight in shining armor? Who could spell bind people when he talked. Who all of my friends , throughout my life admired. Who I never felt lost with. Who never got lost. Who spoke every language of every country we visited enough to talk to the people. Who was so strong he would do push ups with me and my mom sitting on his back. I was never afraid with my dad. Not one moment of my childhood was spent in fear because of my dad. My dad would always see us through, anything. My dad could protect us from everything. I was never afraid.

My father I never think about , anymore . This is the first time I’ve thought of him

In years.

My story is essentially one of survival. All of our stories are. The only difference in us is in what we think we survive.

That is what truly defines us. What bonds us to each other . What separates us. What angers us about each other. What makes us afraid of each other . What makes us respect each other .

We all understand on some level, that we are surviving this.

That something , from the moment we are born, is fighting to be free. To be heard. To be loved. To live.

Sometimes I think it’s when we have learned to stop fighting to survive that we begin. When we stop defining ourselves with survival that we find out who we are. When we learn that we are not trapped. When we allow ourselves to open the cages, we keep ourselves in. That is when we are born.

I have spent most of my life, bound for you.

I have made that choice.

I also had a teacher who taught me how to tie the knots , who taught me how to not fly.

I believe most of us have these teachers.

The ones that didn’t have them, the anchors, they didn’t have truth, instead.

Human nature is such thatkk

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