Diary of the Prodigal Son

Day 1
Dear Diary,
You know I am not exactly sure who I am writing to. I think I want to talk with God, but are you listening? Why would you listen to me? Does it matter? Am I writing to myself? From my lower self to my higher self, to my guardian angel? Does it matter if there is an audience? Perhaps I should just write regardless of who is listening. Okay for whoever is out there, or even for whoever is hiding in here I need to get some thoughts out.

I am home. I came home because I was lost. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore and after a bunch of bad decisions I realized even a farm worker at my father’s estates had it better than I. All I wanted was to creep back home unnoticed, anonymously and get a job. No fuss, no muss. I really did not want anyone to know I was there. I didn’t think anyone would recognize me and didn’t want anyone to recognize me. I knew it would be embarrassing. My older brother would not and so far, has not, let me forget all my mistakes. My plans, as so many of my plans lately, blew up the moment I got close. I don’t know if my father had spies watching me or he is just psychic or has a special relationship with the Creator, or all of the above. But he knew I was coming and the old guy could still run. He ran to me! I mean ran a half mile or so screaming “He’s home, he’s home. Kill the fatted calf, he’s home.” The entire estate knew within 60 seconds that I was home. So much for quietly slipping in.

The worst part and the toughest still, is my dad. He insists I am his son. That I am still one of his heirs, in today’s terms it would be to say I am the son of a multi-billionaire. The family as a whole might be, probably is, the richest in the world. Did you see Crazy Rich Asians? Like that, only more so. And no one knows who we are. Therefore, that I have the money, the power, the capabilities, the resources of his friends and associates to just about do anything, anywhere with anyone. You would be surprised who my father knows and who seeks his advice around the world. And I am supposed to inherit all that with my brother? And all the responsibilities that go with that? No friggin way, I just can’t handle that. I am a screw up. I took my inheritance and blew it. Yeah, I spent some on drinking, eating, and women; but no more than the other rich kids. We all hung out together, well not everyone, my goodie two shoes brother wasn’t there. Come to think of it, maybe there weren’t that many of us. Just all the screw ups! I did what was expected. It was the schemes, the plans, the businesses. I had plans, good plans, I wanted to be my own self, make my own mark on the world; but something always went wrong. It was like every conman in the world knew who I was. They were good. And all my friends were not bad people. Well maybe a lot of them, but not all. There were a few good friends who had the courage to tell me I was an idiot. Well not in so many words, they were gentler than that. But they were right.

In the end nothing worked how I expected. I was, am a complete failure. Everything I touch turns to crap. I don’t know how my dad doesn’t see that. He thinks I am, that I can be some wonderful, smart, wise son that can accomplish anything. I can’t. He is not being realistic. I feel like such a fraud walking around in these clothes. Everybody else knows I am a fraud. How come he doesn’t see it? In some ways it hurts that he doesn’t see me as I am. That he hasn’t given up on me too. Can’t I just be me and go shovel manure in the barn? I know I can at least do that.

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