For the last three years, that’s the farthest back I remember, I’ve tried my best to ignore this feeling, you know, this guy wrenching anger. But everytime I realize it’s going to be eighth of January, it is there. Taunting me.
I’ve a horrible memory associated with my birthday. I know, I know, what sort of idiot talks about horrible memories about their birthday. Well, this one.
And it’s a significant one, you know. The kind of memory on which your identity is based. At least, a significant part of it.
Like ninety-nine percent of population out there, I’m angry and pissed. Pissed at life, with life. I can’t say anything about women though. I do not know how they feel. Definitely angrier though.
But rather than any other fart out there, I do not drown my sorrow, or misery, in God’s drink, I do not hurl abuse at little kids, or beat my wife to death. I write about it. And I know I keep repeating myself, I keep writing about misery, about the evil that men do.
I know I’m cliched, but it’s fine with me. I write the same old shit, on a constant loop, over and over again, because I see the same shit happen everyday. No matter what the fuck I write.
I still witness drunken fathers abusing their ten year old boys, I still see arrogant bastards hurling abuses, threating those below food chain then them. I witness the same hell, on a constant repeat. I can’t stop. Believe me, I’ve fucking tried.
Why do you have to follow anyone? Can’t you be your own men, or women?
Who says all the good comes from reading books? Sometimes, actually most of the times, life teaches us lessons that are far more valuable.
I do not wish to write a hundred and fifty books in my life. Heck, I don’t even want to write twenty. I’ll most probably write five or six. OK, definitely under ten. But all of them, they’ll be the stories I’ll be proud of. I’ll be proud that I had the courage to tell them.
I do not want to write about rich bratty kids, or an obnoxious detective, or a drug lord. I’ll write about the misery, I’ll write about failed parents. I’ll write about child abuse. I’ll write about the things that I want to be talked about. I will write the things, the words, that will heal me.
It is my quest to be whole again, even if it’s a doomed to be quest.
I’ll write the same cliched story, even if it’s been written hundreds of times, or even thousands of times. I’ll write about it because it hasn’t been written by me. At least not yet.
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