A biography is an account of the series of events making up a person’s life composed by another. I offer my memoirs as replacement. In accordance with my previous writings, I offer this rare, brief view at my personal memoirs.  This piece was written to me, for me, by me.

--With each keystroke I delve deeper into myself. I do not know the name of what I am searching for, but I fear that I shall soon find out. As I play out my life through the words that I type, I uncover a new truth about myself. I am forced to acknowledge that truth lest it overwhelms me with its forthrightness. The truths that I am witnessing are very unnerving. It is almost a revelation with each page turned. The innocence that I lost many years ago returns only to be ripped to the void by the next sentence. The boldness of my spirit is undermined by the sheer determination I possess in tearing down my long-standing walls. The accuracy with which the attacks penetrate my protective armor indicates that the attacker has intimate knowledge of my weaknesses. That is yet another truth that I am forced to accept. I write to clear my soul. I did not know that before, but I am very sure of it now.

 

--I began this project like so many others, to impart my knowledge with the world. I felt that it was my responsibility to educate the multitude of people that inhabit this planet. I do not know why I felt this way. That is a depth that I have not yet reached in my writings. I do know that the gifts that I possessed were powerful enough to move me. Even more astonishing is the fact that I was able to subdue those gifts for any amount of time.  I was such an unskilled and impressionable youth. Though I never led anyone to believe otherwise, people did. I began to live up to the expectations of others and perforce had to forego my own spastic episodes of life.  I have stated many times over that I do not carry regrets into the future. A missed opportunity is just that, and an action performed cannot be undone. I have thought about the various choices that I made that have shaped my current life, and I would like to know where the other choice would have taken me. I do not call that regret, just a simple curiosity that I cannot banish.

--I am not immune to the passage of time and I know that eventually I will have to confront the inner demons that I have tried to personify into one deity. They haunt me in my dreams and plague me in my waking hours. I am not yet strong enough to confront them and emerge whole. I have a deep rooted fear of losing myself to myself. I know that my verbal ranting does not penetrate the psyche that encompasses your life. Do you realize that I am not asking you to understand? I am asking you to simply listen and allow your trinity to lead you to the place where my words have taken you. I digress as I so often do when I am reaching the core of my feelings. I must cope, no not cope, I must understand and acknowledge the feelings that I have masked for decades.

--Many would question my heart and my faithfulness to any but I. Perhaps they believe that they have a valid reason. Maybe a perverse action or inaction; maybe a spoken word or phrase led them to that conclusion. I know not the path that their thoughts travel. The many assumptions of my life are wrong in their generality and often in their blatant pointed ness. The passing of knowledge is never swift nor easy to comprehend. I again grow weary of the banter and general pathetic ness of my situations. I have allowed emotion to crowd the issue for me. I must concentrate on what I feel. I must temper myself to hear the words that are being spoken through my soul directly into my fingertips. Such words of beauty have I placed onto paper. I have begun to share these works and oh how they clamor for more! I am elated by that feeling when someone reads my words. The feeling is especially gratifying when they read them and the light in their eyes comes on, as they recognize my truth within them.
--I know not how to describe that feeling. I possess a large vocabulary, as well as several variations of vernacular and slang. Yet I find myself speechless and ineffective at detailing my own emotions. I must learn that type of courage. I must face the things that I have run from for years. I never contemplated the idea that I might be running from anything. I only knew life or death. The dreams that I have had still cause me to shudder in my waking moments. I shiver with a chill that goes beyond my bones. It’s as if the very fibers of my existence have been exposed to a bitter, despondent northern wind.