I’m sitting here staring at the screen. I know the words to type but I can’t put them down. Because putting them down makes them real. And I don’t want for them to be real.
Baby boy, there are oh so many things I wish for you. so so many dreams I long to come true. And there are some things I pray aren’t for you. Won’t be for you. Ever. Right now, I’m struggling to see how to balance these two and I have no idea how to make it alright.
The script was written before, and I’d read it, of course. But oft, delusion sets in when reason should reign and you think you can alter the course. I read the script to here and then the pages ran out. To here was the chance to alter the course; from here we’ve been given the pen. And I don’t want the pen, can’t handle the pen. I’m 2 years old again and it’s scribbles – it doesn’t. make. sense.
I’m not sure of the text…can’t see the next line. And that saddens me, so very very much, little man. So I can’t write right now. Won’t deal with the book. Instead I’m going to go watch you sleep, and stare for a while. Loose myself to the rhythm of your heart, maybe even sneak in a hug. Because you do make sense. You will always make sense.