It is not an easy task to write the memoirs of unloved lives, but
I will try my best to do this duty that has been assigned to me.
It began with being haunted by all of the voices of the children
I chose not to conceive. They taunt me with their accusations
that my life is less the fulfilled because I chose not to be engaged with
their creation. Unfathered myself at this point, I chart an unmonitored path.
Too much mileage and not enough wisdom garnered from trips off the
map to corners of Timor Leste that now are just digital images and dust and
voices that linger in my head so many years later that I find it hard to recall
what took me to this point. Close my eyes and count to eleven.
A trip to Numberland as I try to embed the meaning into a world of digits.
Digits can bring gravitas to a discussion but not true emotion. Life
experience does not ensure wisdom. How many times do the waters of
the Mississippi have to flow under a bridge in Memphis until it
has learned a lesson? And does Memphis ever dream of the Nile or a
river in the Land of the Unreal where everything makes more sense?