As I try and go back into my memories, I realize that my childhood seems to be gone. I remember generalities and few good things but there is an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and despair.
My name is Joe. Just Joe. I was named for the black liquid my mother so loved. My birth compared to the thick, sludge at the bottom of a pot of diner coffee, left too long. I was late. The labor long and hard but when placed in my mother's arms, the warmth spread just like the adrenaline rush that caffeine creates as it spreads through the body. I wish I could remember those feelings. Life has a way of changing people and my mother was no exception.
Life as a girl with a boy's name wasn't always easy. I've always been a bit of loner and an observer. I'm not the type of person that walks into a room, briefly looks around and can remember each detail of the wallpaper, sofa patterns and lampshades. I tend to see the people beyond the superficial smiles plastered on their faces so the public never knows of their inner turmoil. I also dream. Sometimes, I dream so intensely and feel the pain of another as if it is happening to me. I've struggled with understanding my dreams and why they happen and have learned to accept that maybe I'm just there to witness the end of life, even in all its pain and misery. Offer a bit of comfort to the dying.
A newly created category. When you see this tag, realize you are reading unedited writing. Writing that I literally composed at the keyboard and hit publish with little thought as to the fluidity or even grammar of the words. I'm just experimenting with stretching my mind and exploring characters and worlds both known and unknown. I'm not hoping to write a novel and will most likely grow bored with this little project.