I'm in the process of re-writing my autobiography. I initially wrote it back in the early nineties. Until now it never seemed like the right time to publish it, but now I believe the time has arrived.
As I re-read the chapters which chronicle the adventures of a lost young man throwing away everything nature and nurture gave him and self-medicating his way to total despair I can't help but think of all the missed opportunities and self-inflicted pain. Anything that should've meant something was discarded in a blind attempt to escape the pain of not understanding the world around me.