Another week went by. It happens.
I don’t remember seeing this wrinkle on you. How did you do it? How much energy have you invested in that line of yours?
Did you repeat one mistake after the other? You may think that’s stupid or naive, but it’s the unbearable compulsion to stretch beyond that mistake–what more wrong can you do to hurt that person, to prove that you are unworthy of their kindness?
Oh please.
Here is the creator’s third life (yes, third). There is the novel, the blog and the so-called “real life.” They don’t know it because you’re not telling them. They think you’re all that in one. You might say, on the literary aspect, all three personas make you, but you have to separate them. It’s better for you.
Tell them.
Yes, you do. You envy all the married, engaged or taken people, but think about it; is your envy irrational if you say you don’t want to be in their place?
If you gaze downward as you speak, you’ll see the error in every spoken word, whereas if you look at them, you might kill them. So there’s nothing wrong with making mistakes.
People do that all the time.
Squeeze the head of the dead flower; it still emits leftover moisture, a sign of some life, a hope that wants to last a little longer. Hope dies last, they say.
You can’t be you in front of anyone; you can’t share anything with anyone–underneath that grey nimbus. They won’t ever be able to see you in that camouflage. And yes, it’s your fault.
So now this line will forever carry that mistake which you will continue to commit…until they are all gone. You’re walking that line alone, do you know that?
-Yes, I know.
