Children are natural. Unconditioned and unburdened by default until circumstance makes that change. Take a young boy with dark hair, born and never allowed to live a mistake he never made down. Looked down-on on even ground by eyes unrelated but forcefully related to every step he takes. Growing happens to him as it does us all, but whereas a child of fortunate circumstance is filled with support, love, and stability he grows with distrust, self-contempt gathered from the hue and cry of another’s contempt, and without example of what it means to love after excitement.  Like swapping flour for baking soda or chocolate for molasses, the cake bakes differently to a complication not particularly palatable to the normal taste.

     The child’s a man now though, because that’s what children do: grow to be adults and a part of this world. This one is apart of this world, and while he can ace everything that can be taught and conquered his ingredients are always the same. What ne never knew he couldn’t learn no matter how long he played or how many miles he moved past the expected finish. By some small twist of fate, an act that would save yet haunt him for decades to come sowed the one seed of happiness he would ever have.

     When life’s misdirection’s dripped in to his water like sand, insoluble and cloudy, he found a beach along the Pacific and forgot the life of selling in tall buildings behind him. It was never forever, but a friendly face, family by name, helped him sit down with himself to architect the home he would return to and how he would live the coming times. Even though every passing day meant the end was nearer he still found peace in the hours of the respite. The warm air and sun almost as nurturing as the miles he’d traveled.

     This man will never change. He will never see himself as belonging to the world he so desperately wishes he did, because he truly doesn’t wish to. The things that make him happy don’t produce enough iron to keep the anemia at bay, but nothing else puts it in his blood to begin with. He’ll work with the balance he’s survived so long with so long as it keeps him alive. He will excel with the skills he has but will unfortunately trample through every garden he ever finds beauty in with the feet of a child that was always hated by those who raised him. Even after they long since passed he finds in himself the well in which to fill his bucket of loathing for a young boy, with dark hair, who still can’t live down a mistake he never made.

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