MY HATCH POCKET JOURNAL - BILLY COY (ebook reader 7 inch TXT) 📗

normal human-being. But thanks to goodness I survived the most vicious man eater: Death.

I wish it were you here watching over me while I lay down thinking of only you, away from whoever is standing next to me during this ordeal. Anyway, we live because we have to die, and we die because we lived, so, I guess it’s something we should seriously conceive, but surely, can never get used to. That good spirit I told you about that I walk with, I guess it’s the one keeping “poor Richie” alive. It’s not yet my time you know. Do you want to know why? Okay, I will tell you: it’s because I haven’t seen you again. After seeing you again, at least I would die so blessed; it’s so beautiful to die the happiest man than to die as the saddest man of North America.

Anita, I am so glad that I met you dear. Not a day goes by without me counting myself so lucky to be with such a wise and beautiful friend like you. By the way, it’s only when I say to myself that Anita is in my heart, that I can do a hundred push-ups; without saying that, I stop on the twentieth push-up and never want to get married to a nagging woman. It’s so beautiful to love somebody who loves you back, rightly. I would give up the whole world for something that really gives me happiness, because happiness is why we live every day. Am I not right?

I don’t think an unhappy person can survive a storm more than a happy person would. Even when both die in the storm, at least the happy guy would have lived his life to the fullest and the unhappy guy’s life would have ended prematurely. Take care, Anita.

Love, Richie


Hi Richie,

I re-read your first letter and I started to think about it, at the end I had seen the picture; life is too short, and we always tend to waste it. I’ve decided Richie that I am not going to waste my life, yet I may lose it at any second. Richie, I think we should see each other.

I can’t say I am being straight forward, but it’s what we both want, isn’t it? My son just can’t stop asking me why I’m always singing to myself. And my husband always wonders why I’m always singing in the bathroom, even more, when he’s making love to me from there; I guess you know how that singing is like: it’s so different and breathtaking, but at least I would still be singing.

Anyway, when either my husband or son asks me why I always have a song on my lips or in my mouth, I tell them that it’s because I still have life in me.

Isn’t it funny when you think about it Richie: one day we’re here and the next day we’re gone without telling the ones we love that we really do adore them. I just finished doing the right thing; my stubbornness kept pushing me back and away from the real deal; I went over to my parents after all the years we have been distant from each other, and I apologized to them for being a “prodigal daughter.” They forgave me with open arms and we reconciled; now we’re friends again.

Anyway, Richie, I really want to meet you again. Let me hope I’ll still look as gorgeous as you have always dreamed and thought I am, though I barely have a clear picture of you in my head now, I’m really sorry to say. But it’s better the truth than a lie anyway. From your letters and the sketchy picture I still have of you, I believe you’re a cute and sweet guy. Oh my God, less not get a little carried away by what we think of or dream about ourselves, who knows, we may get a totally different picture anyway. I hope you’ll see me; if you don’t want to, it’s okay. I


don’t want you to feel pressured. I am looking forward to seeing you
Richie. Stay away from uncertainties… Yours faithfully,
Anita


Dear Anita,

I don’t know how far you’ve gone with our mysterious relationship, but I am seated here thinking: “is she for real.” I don’t know if you now want to see me out of sympathy or pity, or whether it’s what you really want. I don’t think I’m ready or interested in seeing you dear. I am not saying this out of fear or guilt, but I just find myself pushed a distance, way too far. Don’t get me wrong, not pushed by you certainly, but a lot of things bring me to a lot of thought, that sometimes, I find myself falling back on my grief for realization about the real world in life.

There’s a lot I need to know about you, and certainly you about me. I am beginning to kind of hate second thoughts about this whole relationship, and I for now don’t exactly know where I’m headed or we’re headed. But let me hope we still want to be there for each other. A lot can change in just a split of a second, yet little can be a hassle for a very long time, and still never come to light or materialize. I know that your husband and son are your whole life, but can I really be a part of your life too, or I’ll always be just another man? I am not being way off line here, but even friends have to know their limits, because it’s not every day that one gets a really trustworthy friend.

We humans have skeletons in our closets, no matter how much we try to clean them out; at least a bit of imperfection remains unseen, because we’re still going to be humans.


It’s not easy to find the boundary between what is “real love” and what is “Just love” when you’re lonely; anything that comes to you and feels good at that point in life is good and it can definitely qualify to mean love. But is that what it is, really? I wonder, and still wonder.

Anita dear, I know you’re a very beautiful woman; is your beauty worth miles of hitchhiking? If you don’t really get the question, refer to your heart, maybe it can have the answer faster than your mind can understand the question. Our feelings are good for completion when already having got the deal. But our hearts can readily orchestrate our direction in life, at least that’s what I believe.

Years from now I won’t regret having known you Anita, but still, would it matter if I never knew or met you at all? All things happen for a reason. We can only hope the reason is in our favor or that it’s good, because nobody would really want a fatal or bad reason. But what the heck, the world is double-headed (Both bad and good co-exist), so what the fuss!

Yours sincerely, Richie


CHAPTER SIX


WHY I NEVER FELL IN LOVE


Born 1975, Dean Chapman grew-up without a father or father figure around him. His mother was all he had; she was his everything. In this part of their life Dean’s mother was in her mid thirties, a mid size brunette, working class lady with a big ago; she had big oval eyes.

They lived in well to do suburb home: three bedrooms and two bathrooms.

At the beginning of his teen years, that’s when all hell started to really break loose in Dean’s life.

At just fourteen he began an experience one would call ‘defining’ in the ever imperfect world. To him as for one, a “defining life” had begun soon enough, at the age of three, when he had to grow up for the rest of his life without a father.

Dean was this overweight, tall kid who found it had to fit in among his peers, who themselves never made it easy living for him either. He was so bullied at school because of his weight and shyness, and it was all too much for a fourteen year old kid to take. Neither his mother could really help him out of the psychological torture he suffered at the mercy of his peers, but she tried.

One day Dean came back from school so mad that not even his beloved mother could stand in his way and survive his wrath. Getting into the house crying and all shaky and filled with anger he right away rushed up-stair to his bedroom; the hard slam of his bedroom door alerted his


mother, who was in her bedroom too. She knew something was not right.

She right away rushed to check what was going on, only to be held outside at Dean’s bedroom door. He had locked himself in.

“Honey,” she said, “what is wrong, talk to me please.”

She could hear his sobs, and it hurt her so terribly, but she could not get to him however much she tried.

At night, during dinner, that’s when Dean had the energy to come out and join his mother at the dining table, after she had tried to call him out of his bedroom and had still failed.

With tears in his round babyish eyes, he said to her, “I am so sorry mother.”

“No, no, son,” she replied, “Don’t be.”

She got up and pulled a chair for him and sat him down with a peck on his cheek.

As they ate dinner they chatted.

“You have to stand up and be a man Dean.”

A sigh, “I try mother, believe me, but it’s hard when you’re never appreciated.”

“I know, but life is never given up while it’s still here. Every day is a struggle, and so you have to play to the same tune and persevere.”

“You’re definitely right mother.”

“Without your father around we have survived on our own this far, haven’t we?”


“Yes we’ve.”

“That’s how life is,” she said confidently, looking right into his eyes.

His mother made him better that night and Dean never slept on a disturbed mind.

But the next day at school his peers were at it again, and he was just playing the vulnerable prey that he always was in their eyes.

“Fat jerk ass how is your lonely life,” one of the girls passing by him screamed at him and her peers laughed.

The quiet coward that Dean always portrayed himself to be, he just stood by into his locker and had even forgotten all his mother’s words of caution: “to stand up for himself and be a man.”

A next group of three boys came by his locker and started mocking him. “Hey big poppa, got any food left for us,” one boy said mockingly. And the other three laughed in contempt.

In his own defense, holding hard and with fury his locker door, and probably his mother’s words running through his head, Dean boldly turned around, his face toughened, and he pointed