Sometimes when someone writes something, only the writer can understand what the text is about. I want to post what's below and if possible recieve opinions on what the "text means" or if it makes any sense at all. When I read it I feel disconnected myself, but a little opinion would help. (I wrote it of course, but now, I'm begining to think its just me.)
Here goes:
_________
It was a little time ago since... it happened. There is an elusive sense of nostalgia related to the continuously igniting fire that no one seems to comprehend. Fueled by hate, agony, anxiety and desperation and calmed by the blowing of the fresh new breeze that is tomorrow.
“Hope… that is what the wind carries to this small town.”
The world talks and speaks while we lay deaf towards its needs. Frivolous things that we associate with pride, kin, blood and culture that we pay so much attention to that it overwhelms the concept of family, relationships and the silly thing called love.
“Family… I lost track of this concept myself.”
Stories that I have seen on television, internet and radio have become my evident fate. It always sends a sense of grief when I reminiscence my pathetic life.
“I was the lucky child… he was not.”
The truth is that this odd feeling comes to me as the simple irony of a world mocking its residents. It always makes me smile when I realize how fooled I was in the past. I used to read, hear and talk of stories that surrounded me. Things I saw on TV of war, murder, deceit and empty promises have all been “horrific” behaviors of people living a similar existence. Where I lived… housed the opposite.
“Those rotting walls of this house cause me pain consumed by serene grief.”
The way I lived seems like a huge Jigsaw Puzzle with small pieces that are so tiny that it is hard for a professional to connect them without spending a long time. The irritating thing about a Jigsaw puzzle is when it is almost complete… but it is missing the necessary one to complete it. Almost as irritating as playing a jigsaw puzzle and accidently dropping all the pieces on the floor, then losing some under the sofa that you have never thought of looking under, and by the time you do search there, it is vacuumed and thrown away by your mother.
As the person I am, my puzzle pieces were never really connected in neither shape nor size to the person I most looked up to. Each piece that connected with the other looked happy and so the fitting-in was easy and flawless, but those pieces that looked different and had no connecting end failed to convince the other pieces that it belonged with them, but instead, it was considered a lost piece that belonged to another puzzle… a pariah… or perhaps, the reality which has been overlooked, just perhaps, the real problem lay with the other “connecting” puzzle piece, the middle-man, which could not be found.
“I was born in a family that loved me, with a little luck that blessed me, a devastating pain that haunted me, and a little hope for a future beyond me. That is my jigsaw puzzle and that is my story.”
--
Regards,
M


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