An unrooted past

Hey, I just had to try to put down in words what I felt after talking to you earlier.

To all appearances, you have the world - looks, brains, career, friends etc. Yet, I felt so sad after you asked me to read that stuff behind your photo.

I find it sad that you don't know who wrote those words about you. You think it might be your dad, but (I think) you're afraid to hope.

I find it sad that you don't know who your father is, that he is just this "concept" and not someone you can link to a face, a voice, a touch.

I find it sad that you hate (hated?) your mum, and now all you have to anchor you to your past is a photo album.

I've never heard you speak well of your parents, and I find it sad that this poison is still coursing through you even now.

I always make fun of you that you're mean, grouchy, cranky, bitchy, whatever, but I think inside you're a good person who has developed this thorny exterior to shield the little girl within. I think the only time you're really you is when you're with your "kids", and I wish you could open up more to the world.

Sure I don't know the whole story, but hey, this is my damn blog, so I'll say whatever I want here.

[June 22] After reading and re-reading this entry, something doesn't sound quite right. Something is missing, but I can't place my finger on it.