Where Would You Start Your Autobiography?

I was a kid. Didn’t feel like one. Never felt like one.

I don’t really remember the details. Those days are a vague memory of a movie I didn’t enjoy, but was compelled to watch.

Something broke inside of me that day. Irrevocably. That much I do remember. I still hear the sound. I remember the shock. I remember that day as the day when I started to be what I am.

I’m probably wrong, because you come to be from a series of experiences, not just one defining moment. There’s no fixed dramatic structure in life.

That day, looking at the faces of my friends, on a sunny summer day, something ended, someone came to life.

Opened up my heart to the people I thought were closest to me; people I thought felt the same. Ended up being laughed at and ridiculed.

It kills. It maims. It scars.

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