I've talked in the past of being afraid of glass elevators. When asked if I was afraid for my life shortly after an assault with a deadly weapon, my answer was "I'm not afraid of much of anything, Sir" and I meant it to the core of my being. I had known that I was in danger, and I knew for the briefest of moments that it could kill me, but fear never entered my mind.
I fear being misunderstood, and in that fear I strive to explain myself to the world to the best of my abilities through my constant ramblings for all to read. Yet, somehow I fail even at that. It doesn't serve to help others to understand me - only to be more confused by me. Those I love are those who are the most confused.
Tonight as I write this, I know that the one person in the world I wish to read it will in the end be denied of that by their own hand.
I've lived through pain and fear. I've had a life that was at times very easy, and at others, anything but. I've lost so much through my travels, and yet I've always maintained my pride and dignity. I refuse to allow anyone to make me into a joke, and I've fought against that my entire life. I've fought against fear, pain and heartache. The time has come when I can no longer fight.
I'm tired. I can not continue to argue a case that in my mind is so clear, when to others it remains as the sea after a storm.
I've rambled, I've shared and I've washed my sorrows into every piece of writing I've shared throughout the last several years, and yet even when I try still harder to be understood, I fail. I am but a hollow shell of what I thought I would accomplish in taking on the task of this project. Not only have I not managed to help others to understand who I am and have been, but I've failed to find who I am meant to be.
None of us know what the future may hold. It's a dark, empty cave that we can either fill with light, or hide within its depths. My art has failed me. My life has failed me. My writing has failed me. I have failed me.
Of all the things on this Earth I would ask for, there is only one thing that comes to mind when asked. All I could ever ask for, all I've ever wanted, was to be remembered and loved.
This blog, this project I have taken on, has been a selfish endeavor of my wanting desperately to be remembered, to hope beyond hope to be loved.
I will not stop this project until I have reached my goal of creating the full 365 stories I've set out to write within a years time, only because I committed myself to doing it. Once this project is done, may I set down my pen and never touch it for a single word from my heart again.