a Boy and his Parents

I longed for a family. A perfect one. Never found one. Never had it in the first place.

If only life is much smoother, it would be much less bitter to go through.

I can't express myself. I couldn't talk. I can never be free from this bubble, which only myself knew and could be in it; nobody else could.

I saw families created through love and not the kind that lasts for 5 years, but thousands eternity.

I saw families embracing the troubles of the children, and, though not totally, trying their very best to listen to the wound of their child's hearts scythed deep by the hazards of the outside world.

I saw no matter how troubled and restrained, if so, a child in his nest, and crave to be let fly away like a grown hawk, the last thing a mother would do is to evade her grief of losing a child than to understand the child's need to taste life, albeit dangerous. For a parent who loves, there's no danger in seeing the world itself when they're fully in it to watch over the journey of the child, than to make a ground rule or requirements or packs for his freedom as prized.

Parents' love is eternal. They love into the core of their souls. They love enough to lose him forever than to take away his happiness away from him. They love, or, should love their son more than they do their lives, thus the only reason they're not working is to be able to see the family together.

Having a mother who prefers to argue than to listen is just as bad as having a father who loves spending weekdays in the office with friends, and Family's Sunday afternoon doing exercise with friends, in which case this boy has both. His mother once said, in one of their arguments, "You were treating us your parents like your friends." She couldn't be much more wrong. The boy had very good and understanding friends, whom he could talk to regarding anything and without having to end up as arguments, like he did with her, like when she denied ever saying that he was treating them (my parents) like friends.

They do not talk to solve problems. Their best mediator is time. The longer it's, the less vivid an argument became, which was so faded that they did not realize it ever happened, and would not hesitate to bring it up again anytime, anywhere. A cycle that is inevitable and perpetual.

He always thought it was him who's the problem. that he was bad at communicating, or arguing. It transpired that everyone just thought that he was the problem, and that is the real problem. They would not let him talk to defend myself, let alone to bring up the bad things they ever did, would they?

He never asked to be born. They made the choice to give birth to the boy. He was hoping to be born as a fish in the ocean, or simply a painting on the wall of a museum. He didn't know how it worked. He doesn't understand whom he should trust, if the people giving him life are the ones pulling him down, giving him the promise of .family's warmth he never received.