The Beginning

The experiences that I had as a child were outstandingly unusual. They ranged from here to there, this and that; playing always on the strings, melodies that sounded sweet, but tasted of resin. It was doubtful that I could have lived it differently. The characters that jump out at me now have had the most influence on both my own personality and outlook. Whether it is because my parents freed me into the world of undetermined obstacles and pains, or that the things that I saw produced no effect, the result is that I am here and writing.
The pictures painted on my mind's canvas are sprawling like the inky landscapes of old Japan. They are of the clearly lined and unrelentingly honest variety. It is the mark of a homogenous man to think that all his life has proved true and with concise purpose. There is no way that capital can permit a far-reaching intellect to peruse its inner workings, but nevertheless here are the results. Contemplated and stained by that dirty imprint of past mistakes, my memory still holds true in my youthful brain.
Out of context, it may be, but how many apples the princess hides between her thighs under her skirts have always been a question, although no one has yet bothered to ask it. It applies to the consistent remarks made by Alex, my former stepfather. He used to state that all we are is unchanging. We are and remain unchanged. Sure we get to know other things and places apart from the things and places that we might have known before we started getting to know about more things and places, however, these do not mark us as changed. Take the question of the apples, the princess, and her skirts for example. Do you think that anyone would be the wiser in knowing whether she did hide two, four, or a dozen hard fruits between her supple, smooth thighs? Not likely.
The way I think is like this. I never know where I'm going with anything, but I seem to get there anyway. I suppose it is a good reflection of how I have led my life up to this point. Time is like that too. It forces us to acknowledge what has become of us because what we have progressed from is still alive. Time keeps it that way. People help too, I suppose. They are the record keepers and time is the library or the archives. It has all been written, and it only pleases the logical, practical mind to muse about one, two, and then three, instead of two, four, and then "apples". Order is for the repressed. I've seen them here and there, sometimes spotty, sometimes clean-shaven with eyes that are too dull to indulge a long gaze of them. Apples and princesses, that's all it comes down to in the end.