I have found it wise to say little about myself in this blog. Rather I have hoped that the things I have seen and done would be fit compensation for my readers' attention. The scar on my left leg just below the knee is not all that important to anyone save me, and even for me was much ado in its creation with diminishing returns in the form of entertainment or importance thereafter.
Many times I have likened my life to a complication in the perfect order of things and so regard my conception to most likely have been more the curious. Of this moment when motility met with oospore, I hardly know a thing. However, in the manner of what I have read, I believe a certain faction of citizenry attach weight to this commencement, with heavy feelings lasting for a length of time before the predictable diminishing loftiness of concern for said creation result thereafter, this despite a considerable affection for the hereafter.
I no longer consider myself puzzled by the nature of the things I see and do. Through blogging I have come to terms with the infinite. I stand before variety clothed only in pity for those who feel consternation over heterogeneity. I have acknowledged my own lowliness when confronting the unknown.
Four years of time after my supreme moment, I have my first memories. One is of my milk bottle which I traded for a model truck, an exchange that was forever thereafter lamented. Another is of an elderly German lady on an upper floor in our apartment building who could pass string through her neck with a quick snap. This was a fearful memory as I could never be comfortable again around this woman and her oddly wrinkled neck which I could only assume hid the incision that passed entirely through. I associated her with Grimm fairy tales which are also a major part of my early life.
I would gladly trade these memories for more comfortable ones that occur later like laying in the back of my parent's Volkswagen as we traveled in the night, or of eating buttered popcorn in the back of that selfsame car while watching Sound of Music between the heads of my parents upon a wide screen. The wisdom of Aesop could easily replace those fairy tales.
But of approximately four years and some months before I am oblivious. The moment is lost to me and the reason for its importance is equally lost. I report here only upon what I see and do while only speculating on the rest. Most importantly, you, dearest reader, do not have to live up to my hypothetical musings.
