My life is a story that I feel compelled
to write and at the same time
wish to ignore.
If it were to be written,
I believe I am the only one who
would undertake the task.
Were it to come to fruition,
I also believe I am the only one
who harbors a genuine interest in
reading such a work.
So, as I sit and ponder what to include,
I query myself as to what I,
as the target audience,
might find most interesting about me,
and I laugh – as if I didn’t already know
every painstaking detail of every
memory,
fear,
sorrow,
disappointment,
season of mourning,
flash-in-the-pan moment of happiness,
the decades of loneliness, and
endless starvation for real, true, love!
Yes, I laugh.
Why write it at all?
I know it all.
I lived it all.
And, everything not having been said,
perhaps the world is better off not
knowing what it, and I, had missed
out on all these years.
Perhaps, it would be best if my life
story simply remain, like me:
anonymously inconsequential.