It’s one of those nights, when I have to wonder about the futility of this task. A recording of my history-which I dabble with but never really commit to! I’m not trying to be kind to myself like Winston Churchill-‘History will be kind to me because I intend to write it.’ But there is so much masking, so much I never say because it leaves me too vulnerable, too alone, too scared. Some nights I don’t want to hide behind the bravado, the ‘I’m too cool for school’ attitude. Sometimes, I just want to yell, ‘I can’t do this no more!’ but that I guess isn’t a choice I’m willing to exercise.
So, for now I’ll bottle it up and keep it in the closet and someday it will all erupt. For now, I’ll write my history diluted easier on everyone’s stomach-in the masking will be the revelation, for an intelligent a person to understand!
‘The very ink with which history is written is merely fluid prejudice.‘-Mark Twain.