Without wishesI am destined to be a puzzle to those who try to know me, ultimately unloved and unwanted, lonely, because I am still a seven-year-old boy pining for the beach, and everyone thinks they are looking at a man.
I do not want to grow up. I want the world to come with me. We can all hold hands and sing the songs that filled our childhoods, that even now speak to us of comfort.
I no longer have anything to write about because I have stopped dreaming. My mind, once able to dance, a sharp instrument that would cut to the core and reveal the within, trudges in deep mud. I feel like I have been punished for some crime I have committed, but all I have done is make mistakes. Should there not be a way to undo them?
In my terrible, boring novel, I wrote this. The novel is not autobiographical but my life has made this fit. I suppose it was general enough that it was almost bound to:
Outside, the wind still roars and the rain thrashes against the roof of my home. Soon the sun will rise, inexorably. Perhaps dawn will calm the storm. Perhaps it will bring snow. But it will rise. I want to tell Billy that nothing, nothing on Earth, can change a thing. But I know that I share his wish, and cannot even tell myself that it could never be.