Here’s a little introduction to a journal that will be based on the ever-popular question known as: What the hell were you thinking?
The answers to this will range from “I don’t know” to, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Now, in all fairness, I am certainly not the first person to journal about this. I definitely won’t be the last. However, I will be writing about this common question. This comes from a question that I asked in the closing of my last journal.
What the hell was I thinking?

I want to start by saying how much I appreciate you taking these trips with me. If you don’t mind, I hope you’ll follow me a little bit more into the next phase.
I hope you don’t mind me bringing you around like this. However, the more that I write to you, the more it makes sense that I bring you into these visions. Besides, how else can I keep you interested? So, in the interest of my story, I want to help you see my view more clearly. 
I say this as your humble narrator because to me, this is more than a window to my childhood or to my life as it was. No, this is a different approach.
At least for me as I see it, this is a view from my window. This is where things began and to me, this is where the world began to build up its momentum. 

I don’t know how we do it. We just do.
Life comes at us from all different directions and
each day, we get up.
We get going and we start all over again.

I am here, between two poles, mid-gravity, and I am neither up or down or even mid-range but instead, I am somewhere in an atmosphere, which is either unexplained or misunderstood.
I am between two poles.
It is morning somewhere in a city where the pavement takes the sun between the buildings. There is shade and moments where the sun peeks through. My hands are tied in some regard. Tall buildings block the views but on occasion, we can find ourselves somewhere by water or someplace unobstructed and feel the breeze move through our hair.

I have come to the understanding that each life comes with an inherent truth. But what is truth? Or better yet, what is my truth? Or, should I ask, what is ours?
(Does anybody know?)
I have found that honesty can sting. Even at times when honesty is only pure, like the beauty of an old couple at a lake, looking across the surface to watch the ducks swim past before the sun goes down. The sky is on the verge of change and the color blue is about to switch to a pre-autumn sunset. Orange, I think. Yes, with shades of a purple hue to lace the clouds. And oh, the face of the lake is like a mirror to the sky. It’s perfect and true; yet, endearing enough to bring a tear to the eye.

I suppose no one will ever know why, at least not specifically why, things happen or why we feel the way we do — especially when we don’t want to feel the way we do; yet, we still do.
We still think. We still feel and there is an aim to feel differently.
There is a desire to think otherwise but the thoughts keep coming. I say this with a distinct understanding. I say this because of my past that was unrelenting. There were people who would say, “Don’t think like that,” or “You’re just being paranoid,” but it wasn’t paranoia. Besides, there was a difference. 

This one might get a little personal. Then again, all of this is personal to me. I suppose that as a young boy, I wanted to grow up to be big and strong, just like my Father. I wanted to be like him and to think like him. I wanted to know how to fix things the same way he knew how to fix things. He was my hero and to me, I looked at my Father with such admiration. I wanted to be charismatic, just like he was. I wanted to be able to talk to people the way he could or tell a story and make it just as interesting.

At last, I was free. Or, at least I was somewhat free. There were more steps that I would have to take but I was unaware of what those steps would be. I had no clue about the need for personal change or growth. I thought this is just the way life is.

I was alone, yes. I was uncomfortable as well. The small rooms in my tiny apartment were empty. There was nothing on the walls. There was nothing to absorb the sound or stop the echoing in the rooms. There were no decorations or anything of the sort. My kitchen was the smallest I have ever seen. The cupboards were empty with the exception of a few plates and a few utensils that were left behind by the previous tenant. I went from living in a large home with a two-car garage, an in-ground pool and a nanny’s quarters to a small, upstairs apartment in someone’s private home.