I hate my mother.
The wine has aged in the dark for years.
At times I recall it exists,
but most nights I do not remember.
Why last year I attempted a taste,
thinking its color and aroma to be fine.
The sour taste did not suit me.
I am letting it age a little more.
Perhaps I should have thrown it out.
It is not too late to do so now...
but I think of all the years I have saved it,
checking on it with eager ambition,
and I hope that my feelings will not go unsated.
I thought it was an interesting concept. I don't really hate her, but I do hate things about her. We had another one of those enlightening 1 AM talks last night. Now I wonder about whether people I know were ever beaten as children, like my brother. There are different reasons and degrees. I would like to know. I want to ... understand.
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Fragmented Self who wanders through life like a dreamer and wades through the river of dreams as though it were the only truth left in this world
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