"I always thought that the first time I'd be on my knees I'd be praying..." I held my breath lowering myself to my knees in front of him,
"Then worship," he smirked, "what do you desire?"
Being loved by the king of Socrates Academy is haunting, espe...
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I was born in a thunderstorm on Christmas Eve circuit 1948. An unapologetic forest fire destine to destroy everything in my path, rebellion fueled my burning heart and power was as good as the blood through my veins.
I am not afraid of the dark, It is my closest friend, it is my only ally. It shields me from the preying light of my enemies, it comforts me in its consuming embrace. The darkness needed a companion and I was more than willing to play the sacrificial lamb.
I am my mother's least favourite only child, my father's cruel reminder of his youthful mistakes. I am a faded memory to most. The lost key in the backseat, snow in summer, the name of your old childhood friend, the unwatered plant, an unreturned phone call.
I am the nowhere man, I go by many names, I am the forgotten.
I grew up in a paper house, I ate paper meals at the dinner table with my paper mother in her lovely paper town she adored so dearly. I went to a paper school to learn everything I needed to extinguish the fire inside of me and yet I burned that paper life to the ground. Ashes to ashes my old life fluttered away and I was no longer the prey.
I learned at an early age that the world is not a wish-granting factory, you don't get to look up at the sky and wish for a little miracle or wish upon a shooting star and have it come true. Feeding yourself false hope is the most suffocating little death. I pride myself in being a realist, it takes a lot for me to believe in anything, I'll need evidence and a very strong shot of espresso if you want to get me close though.
I went to church every Sunday as a boy, I got on my knees and prayed for many things; for my birthday not to feel like a funeral every year, for a sibling to accompany me through life, for my parent's attention. However none of the above ever came to fruition, my little prayer tree remained bare, it had brittle branches and leaves that lacked colour. I watered it every day, told it my hopes and dreams and yet it still fucking died in the end.
I had something that set me apart from the rest, I had what my father called síla mysli, which translates to power of the mind. I had an IQ of 202 by the time I was eleven, I played mind games for sport and was always at the top of everything I ever attempted. I'd like to tell the story of how I spent sleepless nights studying and filling my mind to the brink with information but that's simply not true.
