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I've never kept a blog, ever. I had a bunch of diaries when I was much younger. I kept them up for years. I honestly don't know if they helped me. I don't truly pay enough attention to things like that.
I have been assessing myself since my first breath. No one ever took enough interest in me to start that assessment except my grandmother who passed when I was 5 years old. But I can remember being 3 years old. And the 2 years I had with her lasted a lifetime in my memory.
So I knew the pain of loss from a very early age. In fact, pain became a common friend to me. He was very comfortable, predictable. I knew him very well. I would wait for him like a woman would wait for a lover.
Pain made me who I am today. And I'm ok with that. I don't mind admitting that I am a woman who's heart has been forged, not matured. It's just a part of me. And I don't lie about things. Lying just waste time.

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Comment by Prithvi on June 14, 2017 at 12:17am

Because my car was stolen recently I had to use the Uber, and when the money ran out, I took the city bus, which is hopelessly inadequate to cover a city like Los Angeles. Coming home after midnight I looked carefully at the poor people who could not afford a car, getting on the bus after a day's work as a waitress in a cheap restaurant or as a security guard. Most of them were black. I remember a woman in a gray security uniform sitting down so tired that I felt she would never rise again. Her face was permanently malformed where a strong fist had struck her. Because I am psychic I knew that she was a single mother with one child. The bus full of people said one thing: human suffering, the human condition.

Human suffering is the pencil that writes a dark gray streak upon the universe. In your case the internal suffering has sharpened the pencil point. Use it to write---not a wordless streak, but the English language. That is your destiny.


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