Lacking Fragments: A Novel (Completed)

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

To some grounds, I became enlightened. Kind of clearheaded to questions I'd been wanting to get answered. Questions involving the word: remainder. At any rate, on the other hand, into my system entered an evident woeful pain. Pumping. Inside my heart. I suppose, in learning something so thorough, chiefly a state of affairs of someone who means a lot to me, could almost be relative in getting a large fishbone out of one's beating heart. Spiked. So sharp the process of pulling it out also meant internal bleeding; as if literally (and figuratively), any man in the world might cry for help.

     I know.

     Maybe I don't always know, but I know. I've been aware that every person in this planet have their sensitivities, their own. Including me, of course. And to certain measures, us people never drain from insecurities either. These belong to human complexities, as well. That one way—two, or three ways—onto another, the human mind, heart, and soul will always be parts of one full-size puzzle. All these in all; three mere things difficult to fully understand, at most. And we all have these three, same to the sick ones in the asylums. That if so, until the very end, everyone remains a conundrum. Blemished; imperfect, or filled with flaws.

     However, despite of it, no matter how the mind, the heart, and the soul affect one's overall human condition, a man always has to have the courage. The bravery; in order to keep living, to remain breathing, and feet-kicking.

     Also, I'm certain to be imperfect. Nor these writings, all these words, that I would like to show the world.

     As for instance, from the first chapter of this book, I insisted not to be called desperate. But as a friend, a lover, a father or acquaintance, unquestionably I had (and had been) failing, falling as a fellow human being, as a person. That no matter how I tell or praise myself I'm not desperate—how I despise if I'd have this title in the future, perhaps, already at present—for one I know it's inevitable not have this human characteristic. Not at least once, or twice.

     Everyone can be desperate. Always, all of us can yearn for things pleasing to the eyes. Avarice. All through the spirit of desperation.

     Personally, as a matter of fact, if going here in the mainland just to have a type of closure with my anxious, longing heart means frantic; if coming here, craving, in thirst for answers to my questions almost forgotten (due to the time stretch) means desperation, then so be it.

     I'm desperate.

     As of now, I couldn't care less if I already became someone I hated; someone I used to promise I wouldn't be. I couldn't be more unconcerned if I'd been despairing over writing all these confusing words, phrases, and paragraphs. Wherein fact I'd piss on with it. I'm desperate.

     Dejected.

     Of how my heart is in dire need for redemption. So I began writing. I'd write from single page to another. I'd write on this notebook that my wife bought for me; I'd fill this large quantity of lines and blank pages until my head becomes out of words to speak.

     Until my mind becomes empty.

     I'm desperate to finish this. And even though I know, for sure, that the person I dedicated this book to wouldn't be able to read it. But still, at large I'd keep going.

———

Now looking back that day, on our way home once more, inside the moving train returning toward our province, I tried arranging my thoughts and emotions with my daughter Kiki beside me. I immersed in my own train of thoughts; I got lost. After I heard Margery's narrative, I knew then I had to absorb. Especially, pertaining to the story during those four months, that year 2017.