Some things, I don't understand.
Some things, will always escape me.
It's no stretch to say that I'll never be a good father, brother, lover, husband, or friend.
It's no stretch to say that I'll never make it.
It's no stretch to say that some things will never be made full, simply stay there incomplete, like a dog scratching to get out or a camper lost in the snow with no campfire.
I've never found my purpose, except that I'm here to teach people.
Why?
Who's here to learn?
What practicality does my existence serve?
Consume, create, conform.
I guess that would explain human nature.
But what of the "special people", the elite few w