The tale is told again and again. With the ravages of time however all is gone except for the tiny fragments of our lives that is told to kids at sunset. But that’s just a tale. Only we know the story of our lives and that is why we need to be able to tell it, to put it down in writing for posterity so that years from now when everyone is gone people can pick it up and say here are lives of people as they were.
Only my story is a little too hard to believe. But true it still is.
In our modern dysfunctional lives we constantly seek to find explanations for our acts, creating new ways to avoid saying we or someone else was simply stupid to act like that. But sometimes maybe in our simple excuses we come closest to diagnosing the problem. I was messed up is a way of saying I did not take the correct decisions. Inability to deal with emotions is simply enough acting in a childish way.
But maybe even I was unable to deal with my emotions for I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. To hope and to wish for an alternate reality is simply living in your dreams. To feel a high in the company of women is a base pleasure but I was addicted to it and could not kick the habit. Maybe I should have gone ahead and tried my luck and maybe I would be cured. But the tale is as it is.
Where do I start? I think I will go back to many years back? Because this is not my tale. This is also of my ancestors
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