I really don't know, but Im procrastinating writing fluff for my book with this delightful stuff.
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When I grew up, life threw cancer at everything I cared about. Enhanced the ugly in some, brightened the beauty in others, and everywhere in between.
My grandpa, he's like that. He's always shining, always fine, and rarely bothered. But I've never seen sadder eyes than his. Can feel the weight of unsaid words that have tinged his skin in an unnatural light. The scary acceptances that have settled in his aching bones in which I want him to burn black.
My once joyful stepfather, working, surrounded by family and friends with a sparkly smile, he got trapped in the confines of a bottle. A safe space where he could take back the control his body had been condemned to by a doctors solemn three words. Destroying his life before the disease could.
My dad, after a lifetime of narcissism and a mind that ended up poisoning his body, was forced to look at the legacy he might leave behind. Depression took the form of rage, of rebellion, and further self-obsession, until that broke him into a reality that dons no super suits. That ruins lives with an unwavering equality to all.
Cancer changed my imperfect family. Cancer is my impure family. My family has not been took to a place of rigorous revelation like films suggest, but instead a place of panic, of fear, and fight for all that might not be alright.
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I don't know much aside from the fact that I super miss writing for you guys.
Book coming soon, hopefully.