Everything comes back to creation does it not? Not the creation of science or total universal existence, but the more simple development of our own unique makeup. We are such individualistic creatures, with such complex minds. This complexity makes us particularly difficult creatures, with desires, demands, and questions outside the general scope of the rest of the creatures we inhabit this world with.
We so strongly want to be made of purpose. So strongly want to be of substance. To be important, to be necessary.
So we look at our roots for the answers, in order to develop a unique perspective of our makeup. Sometimes the truth that unfolds from this endeavor makes us unhappy. Sometimes it brings about shame, and depression. Not all of our stories are meant for books or screens. Some are meant for lessons. Some are less pretty than the others. Some are full of darkness. Some are downright bleak.
I think I dug deep into my makeup to see what lay beneath the layers of my own skin, tissue, and bone….. to truly see beyond my shallow depths. But I am no unique in that venture. We all go there. We all dig deep.
I didn’t like what I found. I didn’t like my story. I loathed it. I felt sorry for myself, and I tried to deny my existence by keeping it a secret for a very long time. I was ashamed of where I came from, and I felt at fault for it.
I tried to deny my existence so that I could create my own. But any story built on false foundation will always fall, it will always fail. I do not get to choose where I come from. I do not get to choose my creation. And neither do any of you.
Existence is a lottery, it’s a chance. It’s one of those one in a million kind of things. And who are we kidding, most of us didn’t even get the chance to play the numbers. There are ones that were cheated existence by their own creators. Wicked game is it not? Truthfully I was meant to be one of them. Had my mother had the money and ability, I may not have even played the lottery.
But poverty and poor decision prevailed, and here I am. Look at me, look at me. I made it to the starting line. I could have ended up, a bad memory of a poor decision from the past in an old woman’s mind. An afterthought of her challenged youth. How tragic is that. Makes you think does it not?
But here I am living, breathing, and experiencing all the aches and pains, and lightness of this human existence. And truly I should be beyond blissful that I have even been given this opportunity.
We all bitch and moan so much about what we do not have, and what we do. We forget the truth. The truth is existence is a gift, creation is a blessing, and we are fucking miracles in a dynamic assembly of stars, and heat, and air, and water, and life.
My make up isn’t pretty, so what. My mother was an alcoholic, she was manipulative, abusive, self serving, cruel, unloving and lost. And my father is a question mark. I met a man twice, that may be half my creator. But we aren’t quite sure. Our smiles are similar. So there’s that.
I ran from my roots my whole life. I denied them for decades. I hid them from my world. And then they partially died. The only creator I truly knew left this existence. Her pain, her tortures, her tools betrayed her, and took her away from an existence she herself denied. An existence she herself threw aside. So my tree lost most of it’s roots. And my father….well he was a ghost.
So I hid under the branches of my tree, and lay in shame for my attitude towards my existence. No matter who my creators were, they gave me the one thing no one else in this infinite universe dared to do……and that was life.
And no matter what they did or did not do, was undeniably forgivable unless they took back the one thing they gave me. And they did not. So they are and will remain, the single most important characters of my story until the day my roots grow rotten, and my tree begins to wane.