As An Author, You Can't Expect A

Now To Escape Involves Not Just Running Away, But Arriving Somewhere.

The More I Suffer, The More I Love.

I Didn't Like The Way I Looked, The Way I Dressed And Moved, What I Achieved And What I Felt I Was Worth. But There Was So Much Energy In Me, Such Belief That One Day I'd Be Handsome And Clever And Superior And Admired, Such Anticipation When I Met New People And New Situations. Is That What Makes Me Sad? The Eagerness And Belief That Filled Me Then And Exacted A Pledge From Life That Life Could Never Fulfill? Sometimes I See The Same Eagerness And Belief In The Faces Of Children And Teenagers And The Sight Brings Back The Same Sadness I Feel In Remembering Myself.

There's This Old Saying That, If You Aren't Particularly Gifted In Natural Sciences, If You Don't Want To Become A Teacher Or Pastor Or Doctor, And Don't Know What Else To Do, Then You Become A Lawyer. But I've Never Regretted It.

Is This What Sadness Is All About? Is It What Comes Over Us When Beautiful Memories Shatter In Hindsight Because The Remembered Happiness Fed Not Just On Actual Circumstances But On A Promise That Was Not Kept?