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Life is either a collision of random events, like billiard balls during a break careening off and into one another, or if you are so inclined to believe, our predetermined fate—what my mother took such great comfort in calling God’s will.
“There comes a time in every man’s life,” he’d said in the halting, ghostly voice his stroke had left him, “when he stops looking forward and starts looking back.”
Our skin, our hair, and our eyes are simply the shell that surrounds our soul, and our soul is who we are. What counts is on the inside.”
I was my own boss and poorer for it. Go figure.
Oh how i feel this statement
I remember thinking this was what I deserved, the devil boy with the red eyes. This was what I had coming to me for being different. It was only a matter of time before, as my father had predicted, I would encounter the cruelty the world held for me. David Bateman was just the person who would deliver the first blow.
We’d be who we were, and we could either come to grips with this fact and like the person we’d become, or live with regret and disappointment.
“Time is wicked. It comes and goes like a thief in the night, stealing our youth, our beauty, and our bodies.” I had watched Grandma O’Malley, a proud and simple woman, shrink and wrinkle and turn white over the years. But we expect that of our grandparents. Not our parents. For some reason, we think our parents will never grow old, perhaps because when they do, we are forced to acknowledge that we will one day grow old, and we face our own mortality.
