My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Risks of Trust
If I would let everyone be who he is I would not feel this burden that never was mine. It would mean trusting them, but there are few other choices. But I find it so much easier to trust those about whom I care less, those whose lives do not touch mine. Even then, it is not a real choice, unless you would chose that anxiety you need not have.
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