You repeat the story I've heard scores of times. I've heard all the stories scores of times. Like an album pulled out of a sacred drawer. Enshrined. Worshiped. But stagnant. Never changing. Dead.
Yes, when I was fourteen, I.... When I was in the second grade, I....
But there is terrible meaning behind the words.
I stand before you and stare into your blind eyes. I am a collection of lifeless memories. A wish gone wrong. A failed cure for your needs. I didn't fill your holes. But do you even feel the holes or know how large they are?
Until you understand a person, you have no right to want from that person, no right to take. Give the gift of your attention first, take graciously, and demand the same in return.