Late Summer, Twenty-Eleven
Mother,
It has been hard not knowing whether or not you're alive and well. I like to believe, in the deepest most sacred part of my heart, that you are. I can see you smiling over me, pushing me on to be the best man that I could ever be. But I'm afraid I've let you down, mother. Bitterness and remorse has hardened my so-called heart. I can't feel for anything. Or, better yet, when I do, all I feel is pain and sorrow.
Suffering. Is that meant to be my fate? To endure the words of tyranny and brutality so that others may lift up their spirits and live in peace? Thus far, I have survived on this belief that I am capable of helping others. But mother, I'm afraid of what will happen when I find out the truth behind my lost past. Am I truly worthy of living this life? Or am I just a mistake?
I wish that my life would gain a purpose. That people would see me rather than walk right through me. My invisible life is meaningless. With not a friend in the world, I fear that my demise is near. I cannot take the pain anymore. My heart weeps to be held and cared for. Why must I wear my head high and my face strong so that others can live? Why can't I find someone to call my own? Friend or even a foe. Someone would be nice. My sanity is on the brink of disaster. I need a hero mother. If not a hero, a sign. Please, mother, tell me you still love me.
-Devin