Spoiler :

Have been forgetting to post chapters mainly because have just started school again but will post chapters and probably apology/explanation (excuse) soon

Another’s Teapot

(Wilhelm Dragonsong)

As they say holding another’s teapot is not the same as owning that teapot, learning about another’s culture is not the same as having their culture. The people of this world and I have different values and different ways of thinking. I can’t understand them and I don’t think that any of them will ever be able to ever come near to understanding me.

While I have come to accept them, and their ways and to some degree tolerate what I can’t accept, something inside me has always rejected becoming one of them, so much so that I feel it is impossible for me to even think that one day that I would change enough that it would become an option.

The way I had solved this never ending worry resulting from my many differences and unknown past, at that time, was simply to not think about it, to just say to myself that I am me and they are they and leave it at that.

A passive way I know, but I believe that sometimes no choice is the best choice to make though with my personality it is more likely to be ‘still working on making the choice’ rather than a true refraining from making the choice.

Anyway while ignoring it did dull the aches and pains of isolation and loneliness, it also sadly damped my motivation greatly and often hindered any desire to put effort on figuring out a true solution sometimes killing it before even the thought of it could sprout.

And without even the hope for change everything was in stasis, it was like an open wound that never healed but that was so well bandaged and so old that it didn’t even seem to matter anymore. I was stagnant and getting nowhere in any part of my life at least to my satisfaction.

The reason that myself acknowledged for joining a dojo was tied directly to that wound, and my hopes of getting things started in a sense. I said joining a dojo was a childhood dream of mine right? But putting it that way fails absolutely to convey just what that dream meant to me, and that failure also shows how far I had fallen because of my practice of ignoring and shoving to the side my true hopes in dreams that I had given up on.

It was a childhood dream yes, but don’t you think that the childhood dream that came from one of the few memories that a person who suffers from amnesia has, is very different when compared to a childhood dream of others?

That one simple childhood dream was often for me like that one piece of driftwood that a drowning man was able to reach. The crutch on which the cripple had to lean on, the small flicker of light in an abyss of darkness. That one word of truth that warmed while one was suffering by freezing in a frozen lake of lies.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Before I loose myself in getting too descriptive/poetic, let me conclude with the true though embarrassing a beloved blanket or stuffed toy that the scared child clutches to its breast.

It was not just a help for me mentally or emotionally either but actually in some ways a cornerstone of my very being.

For it was not just what I would consider my most precious treasured memory, and not only the most clear and easily recollected one but it was much more than that for it was a sort of linchpin, a key to all the other memories as well. So much so that every time I wanted to search for clues in my other memories I would first have to start with it.

For it seemed to be connected to all the others.

It was actually quite a long chunk of memory that actually seemed to span at least years, if it was all totaled together, if not longer but the main bit was only a day or so.

In order to hopefully further understanding, I will share that bit with you now.

In it, what seems to be a child aged me was saying with naïve innocence that they wanted to become a warrior, and other people of whom I sadly cannot remember the details of their faces of were smiling at me…or at least was being caring of that child’s feelings.

It seems innocent and simple enough, however with the emotions and experience that the adult me now has, I can more accurately and clearly read their emotions, and though the child me wasn’t completely clueless. Now when I look back on this memory I can clearly feel a sense of sadness and the tiredness tenderness that someone who is walking on eggshells might give, from those caring ones who were smiling and caring for that child me.

For some unknown…for some frustratingly hidden reason…they don’t think the childhood me can become a warrior. I think that it must be a reason far greater than the clumsiness that I remember in this life for clumsiness can’t possibly be enough to make them look so sad.

After all though it isn’t absolute the fact remains that for the majority clumsiness can be trained out of a person or at the very least greatly lessened by said training. If that fails I have dim recollections of a type of martial arts found somewhere where one takes their lack of grace and uses it to their advantage, by turning stumbles and bumps into deceptive looking attacks.

There is a strong and distinct difference between feeling sad because you know that someone is going to be bad at doing something and someone that you know doing a certain thing is completely impossible. One is an expectation, the other is knowledge of a disability, and I feel what I saw was the latter.

There was more to the memory then this of course but that was the strongest feeling and what stands out the most.

The little me wanting something, and the ones caring about me wanting to be able to support that want but are unable to. A dream a desire which is shared by both, but the expectations differ.