Tuesday, 22 September 2009


The one where I take time out to feel sorry for myself

I know I've fucked up. In fact, if one were to be perfectly honest, I am a fuck-up. She didn't have to say it - none of them did; the silences and pauses said it all, clearly - plainly. There's probably little that can be politely said to the loser that refuses to get back up from the ground. Therein lies the problem: that I have chosen to remain on the ground for so long, content with scraps, and constantly scared and ashamed even of my own shadow. She was right to dismiss me and everything I said. I could find no argument. And even though I could have given excuses, I could offer no argument. Reasons and caveats piled up in mind, but I could offer up no arguments. She was right and I acceded. She wants to part and I saw in it her thinking that it might be the best way for her to keep her sanity. So it goes. No excuses.

Having said all that, the rot stops now. I will arise out of my rut, go farther than I have gone before, and say "I wish you had believed in me despite all that had happened. I wish you could have conjured up just a little faith when I asked for... a little rope." Those declarations will not come from a place of malice, just from a realisation.

It is time to wake up. It's time I rediscovered my confidence. No excuses, just existence.

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