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So many times I've asked myself, when will life begin? So many battles I have fought I never seem to win.
I see my past as a jumbled mess. Something undefined. Like a bad novel with duress. A poorly written story line.
Filled with things at times too much to mention in this prose. Perhaps I have not come out as such, not smelling like a rose.
Some say I should write a novel or some sort of story book, showing people what unravels so they can take a look.
What would they think of my own past. Indeed what would they learn? If I knew It would teach things that last, what value would it earn?
What price do we pay for our own histories? What lessons do we find? As we turn our hearts into our own stories, as we ponder in our minds.
And as we ponder what do we see within our own minds eye? I see more than I thought could be. I see new things to try.
And not repeat the mistakes I've made. Endeavor to make my life better. So many colors and many shades, to perhaps weave a time sweater.
These memories I choose can keep me warm, if I choose those things befitting. Those things that charge my heart to burn, to keep on playing and winning.
Rather than look into my past for everything gone wrong. Being one who's raced too fast, I'll find where I belong.
With help of friends a history I'll share that I may learn from them. Perhaps they'll learn that I do care. History can help us mend.
Kari Shinal Copyright Oct. 5, 2007