yes, this one is for you.

Call who calls you. 

Love who loves you. 

Support who supports you. 

Ignore who ignores you. 

Never chase people who are comfortable losing you. 

Your life, mine, are not random. Our story was written before we were born.

not for everyone

I tend to react to news, good or bad, almost immediately. Not because it serves me well, but because that is how I am wired. I would not recommend this method to others if they can avoid it.

It does not always put me in the best position for personal peace. But it is real, it is me, and it is not designed for an outcome. It simply feels better mentally to release whatever pressure the news builds inside me.

I do not have much of an outlet for expression anymore, other than my audience of one here: me.

I feel something, I write it out, and my audience of one appreciates rather than judges, takes my words as they are, and doesn't try to interpret. 

However my writing is perceived by those who may incidentally run across it, I would simply say this: my style can be heavy at times, brutally honest, and raw. It may not be for you, and it certainly was not designed with you in mind.

Given that, if anything I do or say makes you uncomfortable, I would suggest finding another source of reading that better fits your journey to find peace.

That is what I do.

A letter to my son.

 This so-called blog began as a letter to my son.

I never really knew my own father, and after he died, it became almost impossible to learn who he had been, what he felt was important, his health history, mine being so bad, and what he thought about things, because I think a lot about things. 

Only now, after learning of his passing some 20-30 years ago and much too late, did it become important enough to me to search for the other half of me. I did not want my son to face that same silence if he too ever came to that same need to know.

 These pages are meant to leave behind a firsthand account to fill the void if ever my son has questions about what his father was all about. Who I was and how I lived, the good, the bad, and the uncomfortable, in my own words. Something I wish my father had been able to leave for me. 

Although the words contained in my posts are often heavy, they are a true and honest account of a man who had a son who never really got to know him. I came into this world under difficult circumstances. I often felt what I couldn't express in person. So I wrote in my own voice and tone, not as a cry for help, or sympathy, approval, or judgment, but as a raw, honest record, in case the day ever comes, my son may want to know. 

old photos

The older I get, the quieter I become.

No longer chasing friendships. I stopped reaching out to people who stopped reaching back years ago. Validation isn't important to me. I already know who I am, and I no longer have time to waste.

There are fewer people and less emotional noise.

Self-reflection has replaced mindless regret. Solitude has become my peace.

Family has become an old photo and a distant memory. Old photos from a life that slipped away are scattered around in my mind while the link to my past continues to fade. 

Time, now more rare than gold and more precious than anything I thought mattered before I understood how little I have left.