November 8, 2011 Tell Me More
We sat at the restaurant table we chose to have lunch at this particular day , our fingers intertwined with each others, just enjoying each other’s company. Because she wanted to provide those things, she asks me “Tell me the things that make you happy.” After I responded, quotes were reenacted from Old School, followed by questions like “Have you ever had the (insert favorite food item) at (insert restaurant name).” Now on to the more serious part, she asked me, “what are the things that make you unhappy?” I paused to make sure my thoughts were clear, then responded, “..just things I’ve been through.” She replied, “Tell me more.”
I try not to talk or even think about it too much. When I do think about it, it’s usually for motivation purposes. I don’t ever want to go back there. It’s easier for me to absorb things that have happened as hurtful when your an adult than when you were a child. If I were to tattoo a list of regrets on myself, there would be no more skin exposed. Now when I think about it, I picture one of those scenes from a movie where the main character is still in the middle of the frame with the camera panning around him in a circle, while everything else is moving at 100 mph. He’s there, trying to absorb it, but then slowly rises his hands to his face to block the things he sees but can no longer affect.
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