A break in tradition is on the horizon and I'm having a hard time resisting it.

A boy whose story needs to be told. A boy without a voice for so long that he wouldn't even know where to begin.

I've spent the last two weeks getting my head dirty with details. Conversations, events, chronology. It's one of my parlour tricks (the other one being a knack for hand memory- e.g., when I was in school, I would re-write my class and textbook notes 5 times over. I would then show up to the exam, sit down, and my hand would instantly start moving and making words).

Will the boy commission me? Do I need his approval? Does his approval matter? Because it isn't just his story- it's the story of the world, of all quiet hearts.

He was silent for so long that I don't think he understands what he missed, or of what he was robbed.

That sometimes, when one wishes to truly rid oneself of a past one so despises, one must have it all laid it.

Lay it out, look at it, know it, burn it. Burn it to the ground.

(I wouldn't need this diary if I had more than one _real_ friend. A friend to unload on, a friend to unload on me. I write because I can't speak, because I'm tired of all the noise inside my head making my eyes bulge out.

And I have no desire to fictionalize my life; everything written here is accurate, barring the motives and emotions that may have been at work (I will never be arrogant enough to, with pride and declarations of truth, ascribe these things to other people and assure others of their accuracy. I am not a fool). But each conversation and each memory of action and consequence written here is pristine. I have no desire to make up false miseries and add their weight to the real ones. I am not a victim. I am just me, no better and no worse than the next guy.)

I have been both the asshole and the pathetic doormat, just like everyone else.

And my talent, maybe my only real talent, is my memory. It has never failed me when it's mattered most. And it matters most now, when I can help free him, when I can help him understand:

That truth matters, that there's no such thing as "it's over" unless you've said your piece, that bitter hearts seek company and commiseration (and, most importantly, refuge in denial), that although people change, they'll never be someone completely new (no matter how much they try), that everyone deserves one fair chance (regardless of how many times you've been screwed over), that not everyone has an agenda, but that not everyone plays fair, that you should care about it, should do something about it (even if it doesn't change a damn thing), that "if I think about it, I give it power or importance" is bullshit (and that the opposite is actually true)...

And that sometimes, not often, but sometimes, you'll find someone who will believe in you. And believe your words. Not only believe them, but respect them, respect you.

And never use you---

-For attention, unconditional love, approval, self-confidence.

-Or for a place to live, an apartment

You'll see, we'll work it out. We'll work it out until there's nothing left to figure out. We'll work it out until you realize that-

you were never a "little thing". Ever.