Mama never said there'd be days where I'd look back and see only blackness, wondering if forgiveness and happiness are reserved for someone else's forward steps. If God only truly cared for babies and fools.
She might have hoped as she carried me in the warmth of her womb that there would be more light in my life than darkness, but she would never see through my eyes. Mama could never tell me of things she didn't know. Mama never fathomed the lengths to which I'd go, and the seeds I'd sow.
The lies I'd believe. The truths I would reap. The loves I'd lose. The killing and the dying that I'd do. Of these days, Mama never knew. Of the loathing, or of the lies I'd tell. Myself.
Days when I don't know my what from whom, when more than my pronouns are confused, when more than pain or the urge to complain, there is true disdain for pretenders, the feigners. Dear God, spare me all the explainers who don't understand anymore about life or how to live it than I've already figured out well before they presumed to epiphanize and enlighten through their revelations, only emphasizing their judgment. Yes, them, and those "got it all right the first time" or the "forgot what it's like to get it wrong because I've been living it right for so long." Preserve me from their wisdom as they paint their faces on.
There is much that Mama can, but none that she planned, and little on which she has room to expand the full breadth of her understanding words to heal my wounds, a loving salve for my soul to soothe.
I am on the other side of Mama's understanding.
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Just sharing my thoughts on a possible prologue for my next book. We'll see how it goes. Work in progress, of course.
She might have hoped as she carried me in the warmth of her womb that there would be more light in my life than darkness, but she would never see through my eyes. Mama could never tell me of things she didn't know. Mama never fathomed the lengths to which I'd go, and the seeds I'd sow.
The lies I'd believe. The truths I would reap. The loves I'd lose. The killing and the dying that I'd do. Of these days, Mama never knew. Of the loathing, or of the lies I'd tell. Myself.
Days when I don't know my what from whom, when more than my pronouns are confused, when more than pain or the urge to complain, there is true disdain for pretenders, the feigners. Dear God, spare me all the explainers who don't understand anymore about life or how to live it than I've already figured out well before they presumed to epiphanize and enlighten through their revelations, only emphasizing their judgment. Yes, them, and those "got it all right the first time" or the "forgot what it's like to get it wrong because I've been living it right for so long." Preserve me from their wisdom as they paint their faces on.
There is much that Mama can, but none that she planned, and little on which she has room to expand the full breadth of her understanding words to heal my wounds, a loving salve for my soul to soothe.
I am on the other side of Mama's understanding.
------
Just sharing my thoughts on a possible prologue for my next book. We'll see how it goes. Work in progress, of course.
