Alternate Identification

While I know it has been several days since my last post, I must admit I’ve been in a bit of a slump the last couple weeks.  The schedule between work and school has given me little time to actually convey my thoughts to an audience.  Several nights I started to write commentaries of the goings on of the world only to either lose interest, or simply fall asleep.  This is not to say the excerpts were unworthy of publishing, I simply have been all over the place in my own thoughts.  Inundated with writing assignments and worksheets that pose literary questions for me to answer, dealing with the anxiety of stepping into a truck that makes me want to scream, living with the pain I can do nothing about.  So many subjects to conquer, so few hours in the day to do so.

Part of being a single parent… part of being a parent period is pushing everything aside in order to develop a younger mind.  A mind of one’s own molding.  The actions I take, the lessons I teach, the pitfalls I suffer all take notice in a developing mind.  A common phrase tossed around refers to the possibility of all one’s tribulations make them who they are.  It is such a powerful notion, to think that my mistakes, my successes, my misguided choices all play a part in my children’s identification of themselves.  I fear though I have taken that for granted.  Many of my decisions I feel have been made hastily, without the forethought of their future.  As I reflect on the mistakes made that granted me this pain, I know there is nothing I can do to correct it.  My feelings have no bearing on the choices of another.  I can only turn to a biased system to aid in the sliver of opportunity of seeing them more often.  With no guarantee, the bias of another could creep into the judgement against me.  When another deems the company of strangers more significant than time spent with me, I can do nothing.  When another leaves this crushing weight upon me simply for not reading minds.  I can do nothing.  The mind is a brilliant, yet terrible thing.  Innovations created, art expressed so vividly, soothing sounds created in a moments breath, yet scorn never truly dissipates.  The mere whisper of hurtful truths hitting like the cold on a weary traveler caught in a blizzard.  Nothing can free even the slightest of perceived slights.  All these instances culminate into a fear, an anger, a retribution of wrongs.  Some may say “good”, some may say “hit em where it hurts”, but who are we hitting?  Sure the intended target is the doer of perceived malfeasance, but the scope includes the aforementioned developing mind.  To what end should the punishment be enforced?  What commentary, what arbitration, what convincing does it take to loosen the chains from the innocent mind.  Is it worth altering the identity of a precious soul of ones own making to seek retribution for circumstances never identified to begin with?  Neither are without fault when the consciousness of two individuals collide, but how do you move further when dialogue fails to seek common value?  How does one purposely refuse to allow a child to receive a love transcendent of any worldly occurrence?  The words may illuminate the situation at hand, but the pain will never cease to exist.  The regret of not knowing more will forever be etched into the fabric of the life I helped to create.  Time may soften the wounds, but the blood will forever trickle in the thoughts of the identities that will never come to be.