Who You Are

Wow, I’ve been writing these online journal entries for the last 12 days (this is day 13)–because that’s what they really are (journal entries, sorta), and now you know a little about me, if not a lot about the things I think about. We’ve covered dyslexia, but that story still isn’t over–I mean, I’m only in second grade in that retold reality. We’ve covered social media, the internet, technology in regard to dyslexia, and even Good Old Day Syndrome (GODS–that’s an ironic acronym if I’ve ever seen one).

But throughout all this I haven’t learn anything about you. I mean you, actually you. Oh, I’ve clicked on your blogs and browsed around, and I like that so many people read books because I don’t know if there’s anything you can do with your time that’s more valuable than that while you’re alone. And I’m glad you write blogs also–all of you, because writing and stuff is suppose to be really good at delaying or preventing Alzheimer’s, so maybe none of us will get it because we all write and read so much. Puzzles prevent it also, apparently.

So, since I don’t really know any of you, I’m going to make you up because people are difficult to get to know online, and because people like being in control of what they are doing, and I’m no different, so this is who you are.

I don’t know you’re real name, but you grew up in a big city–sorta down by the docks in the industrial district where not that many people live, but the ones that do live in cool loft apartments converted from old warehouses and stuff. It’s like an artists loft and even though your mother was a single mother–which is really difficult these days (but, really, it’s always been difficult),  she was able to make it work. Her medium of art is paints and she makes money as a tattoo artist, which she’s renowned for, but strangely enough, she doesn’t have any tattoos herself.

“I just like the art aspect of it,” she tells people who ask.

You never ask because you’re just a baby at this moment, and so you don’t really know what she’s talking with this other woman about who is sitting at a chair in the parlor waiting for you mother to begin. On the walls are images of knives wrapped with vines, hearts broken open, a quill dripping ink, having fallen from an ink well. This is your infancy–I want to believe that. I hope you believe it also.


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