Why?Copyright © 1998 Property of Deborah K. Fletcher. All rights reserved.
July 2, 1987 Why am I here? I ask myself that question many times each day. It is never out of my mind. I have no answers. When others ask me why I am here, I give them weak, half-formed answers. They are not the answers I need to find for myself, but they serve to still other questions, and they are certainly parts of the answer I need. I am not sure what I need now. I do not know the answer to my own question, and I need that answer to be sure. I do know what I am doing. I am telling as much of the truth as I know. I find a new bit of truth each time I talk about it. The people who listen to me are sympathetic, but they weary of my question. I do not blame them. I do ask it a lot. I ask them to listen far too often. I know what I will do. I will leave here. There is nothing for me here. It is difficult to leave, though. I no longer control my own life. Powers beyond me must help me to leave. I know already that they will help me. They are already helping. Please View and Sign My Guestbook
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