Further reflective thought and script...
I am being humbled, whether I liked to admit it or not, whether I realize it or not.
It is true, everything they say about me. I am a drifter. I have been drifting. I have been going with the flow..
Immaturity...
Less ellipses.
There is a reason they treat me the way that they do. It's because they know me as this person.
Earlier tonight, while in my room toiling about the Internet, I overheard my Mothers conversation in the next room. She was talking to my sister, and had her on speaker phone. I thought I heard my sister mention my name, making an accusation of some sort. Curious, I wandered into the kitchen. My Mother was frying up some onions and herbs in a big pot, another pot filled with boiling water and softening noodles rested on the opposing heated coil of the stove. "Did you break one of Azharas plates?" my Mother asked me. "No, I did not." was my straight faced answer. "Oh. She thinks you did." I asked my sister, who was still on speakerphone, what happened to her plate. "You tell me!." was her response. I told her I didn't break it, and that if I had, I would have told her. Dead air on the phone. Moments later, I asked my Mother, rhetorically, if "I was the kind of person that would break something and not say anything about it." "YES!" was her loud response. I reflected on a silly moment in my childhood. I was nine or ten. We had an odd television in our living room. The 35 inch screen was in a wooden casing that rested on a rotatable base. Atop of the television was a pretty purple vase, one that my Mother received recently as either a Christmas or Birthday gift. The curves of the vase were brilliant, the long and smooth form was pleasant on the eyes. I wasn't watching TV when I broke it. I had my feet on the glass screen, rocking the device back and forth by pushing it with my legs, my idea of fun. The vase took a hard tumble behind the television and broke, a large chunk of the vase had broken off, but it was mostly still intact. For a moment I was frozen, and in that idle chill, terrified. I had a history of breaking my Mothers treasures, mostly wine glasses. In those days, I learned that the deepest wounds come from a words whose edge is sharper than any piece of broken glass. I didn't want to tell my Mother about that broken vase, so I didn't. I turned the vase around and hid the monstrous gap. She came home later that day with a smile, excited to be home from a long day of work. When she saw my face, she knew something was wrong. She turned her head and stared straight at the vase and discovered the result my treacherous activity. She was torn on the inside from the sight, and her mouth then tore at me, and perhaps that day, her hands tore my backside, but of that I cannot be sure. Tonight, after my Mother affirmed that I was the kind of person that would break a plate and not speak of it, I stood to correct her. I reminded her that I was speaking of myself in present day context, not that of a young child terrified of being scolded for his mistakes, and that if I broke something, I would take responsibility. Dead air in the kitchen.
I am being humbled, whether I liked to admit it or not, whether I realize it or not.
It is true, everything they say about me. I am a drifter. I have been drifting. I have been going with the flow..
Immaturity...
Less ellipses.
There is a reason they treat me the way that they do. It's because they know me as this person.
Earlier tonight, while in my room toiling about the Internet, I overheard my Mothers conversation in the next room. She was talking to my sister, and had her on speaker phone. I thought I heard my sister mention my name, making an accusation of some sort. Curious, I wandered into the kitchen. My Mother was frying up some onions and herbs in a big pot, another pot filled with boiling water and softening noodles rested on the opposing heated coil of the stove. "Did you break one of Azharas plates?" my Mother asked me. "No, I did not." was my straight faced answer. "Oh. She thinks you did." I asked my sister, who was still on speakerphone, what happened to her plate. "You tell me!." was her response. I told her I didn't break it, and that if I had, I would have told her. Dead air on the phone. Moments later, I asked my Mother, rhetorically, if "I was the kind of person that would break something and not say anything about it." "YES!" was her loud response. I reflected on a silly moment in my childhood. I was nine or ten. We had an odd television in our living room. The 35 inch screen was in a wooden casing that rested on a rotatable base. Atop of the television was a pretty purple vase, one that my Mother received recently as either a Christmas or Birthday gift. The curves of the vase were brilliant, the long and smooth form was pleasant on the eyes. I wasn't watching TV when I broke it. I had my feet on the glass screen, rocking the device back and forth by pushing it with my legs, my idea of fun. The vase took a hard tumble behind the television and broke, a large chunk of the vase had broken off, but it was mostly still intact. For a moment I was frozen, and in that idle chill, terrified. I had a history of breaking my Mothers treasures, mostly wine glasses. In those days, I learned that the deepest wounds come from a words whose edge is sharper than any piece of broken glass. I didn't want to tell my Mother about that broken vase, so I didn't. I turned the vase around and hid the monstrous gap. She came home later that day with a smile, excited to be home from a long day of work. When she saw my face, she knew something was wrong. She turned her head and stared straight at the vase and discovered the result my treacherous activity. She was torn on the inside from the sight, and her mouth then tore at me, and perhaps that day, her hands tore my backside, but of that I cannot be sure. Tonight, after my Mother affirmed that I was the kind of person that would break a plate and not speak of it, I stood to correct her. I reminded her that I was speaking of myself in present day context, not that of a young child terrified of being scolded for his mistakes, and that if I broke something, I would take responsibility. Dead air in the kitchen.
