"Add a catchy title' is the story of my life. I've been looking for seventy-three years to find a title, much less a 'catchy' one. The book is done, weeded out typos, grammatical errors corrected, and long sentences expunged, and it works. It's humanistic (Buddhist?) and recognizes how quickly systemic corruption, violence, and bad jokes arise. The last chapter is cool about how I never got out of being thirteen years old. With intention, I stayed back because I felt the next steps were not genuine.
The guys and gals I grew up with moved on without me. Our discussions in bedrooms, on lanais, up trees, across beaches, and wherever we hung out were, for me, cut short. Grammar and Intermediate school were pau. School became torture. I started down a cryptic path and was saved by humanism. Thanks to medication and therapy, I've lived well enough for seventy-three years. Those dear young people were my leash to reality, and I held them close because I needed them, and sought truth. My peers were as close to maintaining wonder-in-the-now as I've ever known. And when I was that young, understanding what was happening was mortally important. More significant was to have friends at all within the great mystery.
I stayed back.
Let me provide examples. I can't entirely agree that I've been born onto a planet with a male body, religions, governments, and money. From eighth grade back, the private discussions among the kids I grew up with considered the possibility that what we experience as a body may be part of a broader 'something.' From High School forward and into my whole life, these discussions disappeared, turning rapidly to education, work, politics, angst, falling in love, apathetic philosophies, and family. The arc of stories believed is where people live their lives. Words become absolutes from which there is no escape.
Hell, I can't figure what a body is, much less, whether its mine.