The imagination can be a beautiful thing. Truly, it can. I know I've fallen in love with many mind-children of men, and many stories. But sometimes this gift just squanders itself, losing itself in its environs.
And sometimes, I wonder... I wonder too much.
I wonder, if Nolan and Peter and Sabrina and Larry were to leave, and it be just my mother and brother and dogs and self living here, would I still hear the arguments? Would the shouting still sound in the kitchen, the smell of smoke and alcohol still waft down the hall? Would I ever lay my head upon this bed of mine of seven years for a new night of peace, or would it that pillow only give a troubled sleep?
I wonder, if were it just us, would we be happy; or, rather, would we seek new ways to tear ourselves apart? Can a family be a family without daily drawing mental scars? Can a mother be a mother without daily fighting for her perch upon the home's throne?
I wonder if the shouting will ever end, if me and mine will ever find our happy ending. The boy barks and howls, attempting to wrest control of the household, attempting to impress his girlfriend. The old man puts up with it for nothing other than the licensed pot and the alcohol. He's lost control of his house, no longer an alpha male. Mom's threatening to leave again, Nolan's "putting his foot down" on the wrong issues, and Peter gloats at the rift he's caused. He's content to smoke and mooch.
Are all families like this?
Are all men?
Am I going to end up like this, too?
