1.
The Truth
If I ever had to define my life in any way, it’d be something like this: when I was a wee newborn, my Mom brought me home from the hospital and the first reaction my older sister had was to punch me in the face. Now, I’m not going to say my entire life has consisted of punches to the face - I’ve had some to the gut and just about any other part of the body. And I don’t mean physically. But who hasn’t? The truth is this: having a little hurt in your life doesn’t mean you’re special or you’re different. I wish people would erase these misconceptions we have about ourselves. I wish I would erase this misconception about myself.
To be honest, I don’t expect anyone to take this story seriously. I don’t expect anyone to be affected. I don’t expect anyone to care. But even if this story isn’t amazing or phenomenal to you, it is to me. I can’t really say I have the slightest clue as to why I’m writing this, but I think it’s because I owe it to the people around me. The truth is this: they’re the real reason this story exists. They’re my heroes, my lightning, my thunder, my spark, my spunk, and my fire.
As much as I truly admire people, I find that there are some that I regard as the reason I fight, my bane, my nightmare. As a species, humans are weak and I acknowledge that. In this story, you will find both kinds of people. In this story, you will find the weak and you will find the strong.
Though, if you want me to be honest? I think the clear-cut reality of the situation is this: this isn’t a story of self-pity or sadness. This isn’t a story of courage or strength. This isn’t anything like that. This is just a story, nothing more, nothing less.
And a story remembers everyone that took part in it.
