Some cold dark nights I sit here in dismay. The gravity of reality presses heavily upon my spine and smothers my dreams…now hopes…now idle diversions…now dead. Sputtering, exhaling their last inklings of life. My dreams and aspirations for now may feel empowered, even revitalized. I breathe anew and this life lets me forsake my past for I conveniently forget it. Murky struggle brings me to now, and sometimes the day is bright and virginal; other days, it is drab and hollowed by an unkind past. Entrails of a dark history strangle. A past I don’t think of because it never bothers me… Or. Is it the other way around?
A struggle to break free of the past’s backward momentum. Sometimes, I think there is hope as long as I embark on the day freshly. Hope springs but I must stay away from the old photographs.
The old photographs are a tie to my failed youth. They are an explanation and an arrow. An arrow that points onward at the beginning of the journey when the end is still possible.
Life is a journey and the youthful minutes of your childish initiations tell you everything you need to know about where you are going.
I had a Sociology professor in college. I forget his name. He was Japanese and he had a resoundingly bleak outlook as it pertained to predicting your chances of success and acculturation in relation to the levels of the same exhibited by your parents. It was a cold hard truth armed by statistics and academic ruthlessness.
But I have a theory too. The Extinction Theory! Beyond your parental limitations, there is also a deeper, more austere handicap writ upon your fate: that of your youth and the measure of its successes and failures.
The worse that you were as a child proportionately etches the extent of your fate’s illustriousness. In my case, the worst was tremendously bad. My fate is doomed to “un-illustriousness.” Make no mistake about it.
I think I’ve proven my own theorem correct.
The kid never had a chance in hell. His dreams were props and his illusions merely promises. But what a happy child!