My name is Thomas Owen Miller-Young, but you will know me best if call me Franklin Owen.
I find it difficult to trace the moment it all came into being... I was in the car I think, or the bus shelter on my way to Montreal... I am so young looking back on my own life, I had dreams, and well I thought I should have had dreams of more than average life; but I didn’t. I really was happy; this was in a way the internal explosion I never thought I was able to have.
I always knew I had a passion, I frequently expressed my taste or distaste by writing it down. I was writing it all down in the car, yes, it was the car because it was Henry who, I remember he was awake then and alive, really such a long time ago, he who turned to me and said "You must be some kind of special"
I sat there, it had to have been an hour, I was in shock. I had never heard such beautiful and confusing words in all my life looking down at the scars then out the clear of my front passenger window, and with these words, I began to ponder. What is “special”?
I’m really not there if it is a place I am sure you would know; I couldn’t be independently special, could I? Special is not something we buy or create, we can’t find it sitting on the side of the road and wait to see who comes to claim it. We can’t earn it or harvest the sown; I don’t believe we ever know until it’s a memory. We aren’t meant to feel this, its unnatural to the truth, we are simply happened upon, and special: a taste left in the mouth of the recipient bitter and pungent, believed to be a rancid odor smelt sweet to the breath of those who chose to inhale its nectar.
We are never to know Special, so few touch the edge of being and breathing in the sweet aroma of its own to return unaided and knowing special. I never thought much about my gifts before Henry came into my world, and even though I knew this would be my first and last trip beyond my rural and ridged borders, I never stopped before this moment to think, why I felt the need to escape? But was this not it. Was it not because of this that I was running, if running was what I was doing here? I sat in the passenger seat of a full sized shimmering spectrum of a Volkswagen Bug, Roy to my left and Henry, a man beyond his borders as well, to the rear lying patiently awaiting what ever he so knew would happen. Dreaming of my family, this is it even for right now they knew what I felt. And I loved them. Or did I? Even understand?
Love like so many runaway falsities we imagine can so truly hurt us in the end… Take God, we live to worship a concept of a higher being as powerful as to create a race which every breath gains more knowledge to destroy its own creation just to die and leave it all behind to decay in the mind of the next unfortunate soul. We want so badly to believe in love, passion of lovers and transcending emotion of family. It feels so real that no one can express the soul of love as a creation or being. I had known Henry and Roy only several hours but a lifetime, as we traveled through past and present across the plains of this country and into a world I had never known. Life distances the virtuosities I had imagined as life and the realities I came to know. I learned a lot; in three days and four nights I found myself, my family in these strange eccentric men, and who I was meant to be.