There is nothing better than an early sunrise. I see this as a valuable moment in time, awake, and away from everyone else in the world, and to sit here, like this, and be a witness to the start of a brand-new day. I love it when the sky changes in the morning.
I love coming here too.
I don’t have to listen to the insults anymore. I don’t have to be mindful of the disapproving scowls or pay attention to the accusations or the misdirected blame.

No, not now.
Not here.

I hit the blue button on my coffee machine twice already . . .

I am told that life always puts us exactly where we are supposed to be. I am told that there is a lesson in everything, every mistake, every turn, and every breath.
I have also had the faithful people tell me, not to worry, because God only gives us what we can handle.
I hate when people tell me this.
I have also heard the rebuttal from the faithless who say this is nonsense. I have heard from those who have faith, yet they struggle to believe. More often, I have heard from the tired, the poor, and the weak who respond, “oh yeah? Well, I wish God didn’t have so much faith in me!”
I get that too.

In fairness, yes,
there are times when we see or speak to someone or walk away for the last time. There are times I have said, “I’ll see you later,” but later never comes.
So, in keeping with the spirit of this journal and the notes that I kept in a box beneath the bed, I go back to the times when I swore that youth would never die. There would always be another tomorrow.
Why wouldn’t there be?
I swore that I would never grow old or stand in line, and I would never become ordinary or common.
Not me. Never.
No way.

Here’s an example of what my notes would be like and this entry would otherwise be something unknown, and placed in a box somewhere, for no one else to see.

I have to go back to the thing behind the thing, or better yet, I want to start with my core, as in the box beneath the bed or the tiny secrets that I would keep in my little notes. These were my special treasures, but no one ever knew about them.

This came from a time when I was young. This goes back to when my urge to write began – when life started to unfold in ways that I could not understand.
I was always too aware of myself.
I was uncomfortable. I was small and thin and weak and gullible. But worse, I always saw myself as vulnerable to bullies or perhaps I assumed I was like prey for the social vultures who preyed upon the weak or the easily beaten.
That was me.

I have dreams of my childhood home, whereas I can see myself walking through the front door. I can see my home, exactly as it was. All is bright in this dream, like it would be somewhere around midday, summertime, and what I can only assume would be the weekend.
I am looking for everyone but no one seems to be home. I suppose the dream is my way of telling everyone, “I’m home” or “I’m back,” only, it’s too late and everyone is gone.
I check every room and each room is beautiful, but hauntingly empty.
Did you ever have a dream like this?

Let’s see. Where was I?

I’m not sure when, where or how this came to be. Then again, I’m not sure if anyone remembers the hour or the day when they came in contact with a dream or their passion.
I’m not sure when it was that I became interested in writing. I don’t know when someone turned me on to poetry.

I do remember an English teacher of mine. She was mainly unattractive and old. However, I can remember the time she read Shakespeare, and there was something beautiful about her after this.
I remember being a young boy and thinking how amazing it would be to write a book.
Could you imagine?