I’m sorry. I always wish that I could command the keys to type what I really want to say, rather than the poor substitutes which come out.
What I would give to be able to express the inner conflicts, the doubts and the joys. Most people have heroes who get the gold metals. Mine are the ones with pens.
So, it’s not particularly good. It’s rough and really could stand a rewrite, but this is another reason for the change.
He lied, of course. He always did. It was habit. Maybe this time he could say the right thing. Maybe this time, someone would love him. That if he didn’t, no one would care about him was a given. Time had proved that once more.
The chatter, the laughter. Groups are joined, jokes are told. Tables filled. It’s spring, perhaps, with an upcoming dance and excitement fills the air as it is decided who will go where, with whom.
The boy eats alone. A book is skimmed but the words don’t leave the page. Invisible in a crowded lunch room. A cheerleader, approaches with a smile and a twinkle. The shy youth is nervous.
“You don’t need this, right?” A chair is borrowed and laughter fills the air as the boy turns red.
Years pass and the boy’s body is now a man. A stranger is a strange land. Older, but still a child.
Pain never leaves on its own. When healing fails, the wounds fester. Beauty is not born from dirt and the demons never lay still.
She lied, of course. She always did. Maybe this time she could say the right thing. Maybe this time, someone would love her. That if she didn’t, no one would care about her was a given. Time had proved that once more.
Their eyes met, and they knew right away that this was meant to be. For tonight. His pain. Her pain. They could cling together, embolden by the drinks. For tonight, they would not be alone and they could be strangers together for a few brief moments.
He lied, of course. He always did. But not just to others. He said to himself that if someone would hold him, he wouldn’t be worthless.
An aspirin for an aching heart. His buddy was booze and wine his women. But mornings were always lonely.
And then things started to change. Perhaps it was summer. The man found that which the stolen hugs had never filled. It is not to find one to hold. It is to hold those you have.
It was not the real man. It was a fog, an evil darkness. A selfish, insatiable longing for love which could never be filled until it was let go. Love comes not to those who seek, but to those who give.
The man, now a daddy, finds his hugs among the squeals. He prays that his children will only know this new man, the one who is there for them. The one who holds and protects. Who teaches and wipes tears.
Each morning, he wakes up with a resolve that his charges will never know haunting anguish. He can’t save them from everything, but he can save them from his old self.