They say a friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you. I don't have that in my life, I don't think that exists, or, at least, it doesn't for me, because every person I meet or fall in love with has unreal expectations, or I am forced to believe them when they show me who they really are, because otherwise I am loyal, I'd spend my life loving them, faults, flaws and all, because - I have them, I have more than a few faults and flaws, I am wild, I have a wildness about me, other times I don't speak for days, not even a sound, I am judged harshly by those I gave a portrait to, a glimpse and honest chance at solving a puzzle, as most people take those pieces and they take them for granted, they refuse to see a beautiful mosaic, or they abuse the privilege from having no idea how hard it is for me to trust or befriend anyone now. There are barriers and roadblocks, boundaries - and once those are crossed, that's it, there is no second chance and there is no forgiveness.
It's funny, but all of this, this sad life, this long disease, if that doesn't create a writer, what does? Writing is magic, I can create worlds, a black sea lapping, my whales on my black sea, a gray pier in the angry, thrashing water, and the traditional bells for the ships coming in, the majestic lighthouse watching from the rocky shoreline-cliff like a stalwart sentinel, the oily shipyard and hustle and bustle of a busy port, the smiling faces, the shouts, the sporadic fistfights between dockworkers, a waif and her dog stealing a satchel and being chased by the port authority, the alleyway and gateway to the kingdom of thieves, the brothel and scrumptious courtesans deliciously welcoming their sailors, a raggedy old man hobbling along like a barefoot prophet hated for being kind to everyone, a broken window and shards of teeth at the cafΓ©, a silent casket full of bones, the flood of blood and tar from the strange wooden barrels that line the dirty street.
The reality is that this room is a sick-room, and when I look at it, when I examine it, the yellowed walls and opulent light and lamps, I see a girl who loves books.