Words. Letters jumbled together to form a story. Letters. Lines and dots made by sticks of wood or chunks of plastic used to make marks on something. Maybe some people are pencils. They make marks on the world. The worlds something right? Maybe, just maybe we are all pencils. We leave marks on the world or on other people's hearts. If we try we can make words and if we try even harder we can make a story. Is the story worth writing though? I use to think it was before my brother died of cancer. Before my dad left us and I got kicked out of school for getting in a fight with the school bully. I don't regret it either. Regret. It's a funny word isn't it? It's basically thinking a decision a second time. I had lost a lot. I didn't believe in writing my own story anymore. I was alone. I locked myself up in my dad's old study. I would read the stories he wrote and every book in his book collection. I would read them over and over again. 2 times, 10 times, 65 times, 103 times, 1,673 times. It went on and on. It made me feel like he was here. That he didn't leave and they didn't come. When you're all alone you think about a lot of things. You could think about little things like why is butter in stick form or why do books open sideways? You question big things too. Like why are we here? It's a really good question. What is our purpose? To live. That's the answer. Simple as that right? Wrong. How is it that the world's smallest problems have elaborate answers but for life's biggest problems we can explain it in one word? What is even worse is that we don't even question the answer. We need more people to question things like that. Maybe that's just the way things are done. Maybe that's just the way we are.
