A day I remember well.

 Those books do not interest me which are not written in the author's blood and tears

The carefree bounce of the sunlight from the leaves of a tree.

The child's carefree singing as he skips along a path laden with autumn leaves. 

The parent's reluctant joining in on the child's wild abandon, freeing them from the anxieties of a middle class existence. 

As they walk along together and feed the ducks splashing around in the pond. 

That is a day I remember well. 

The thoughts of getting ahead in the ladder of work. 

The envy of comparison with those who had been around them. 

The resigned hopelessness of a failing marriage. 

Exploding into a flurry of rage. 

The pure desperation and frustration of two children who never quite learnt to express these things.

Or perhaps were never heard. 

But that is not the story I lived through. 

For it was the grating on my ears, of the sadness in their anger and the softness in their rage. 

That is a day I remember well. 

The wonder at the magnificence of what a relative acheived.

Through their own volition or through helicoptering a child. 

The lustre of the illusion that comparison can provide worth.

Contrasted by a languishing in unlovingness of the ones beside them.

But that is not the story I lived through. 

The dying breaths of a wilting flower. 

The intensity of a starved prisoner. 

Begging for alms. For nourishment.

The hollow acknolwedgements of their love.

And the beginning of the illusion - To walk the plank for their satisfaction.

Until they could see that I shone too. 

The anxiety of protecting their reverie.

That is a day I remember well. 

When I felt your pain, I could not ask anything from you. 

For it would guilt me as much as robbing and mutilating the beggar. 

It was quite "practical" then, to convince myself of my unworthiness for these gems.

To ensure that you would never be bothered, and have to suffer further because of me. 

That was a conscious choice. 

And is another day I remember quite well.