I've been meaning to write. Actually, in the interest of being honest with myself, I've been meaning to have something to write. It's just that at some point you might realize most of the despair one feels in any given situation, especially as an adult, is largely a manifestation of your own choices, your own actions, your own fuck ups.
And I guess I find it is pretty difficult to produce a meaningful series of words to express this concept, the realization that life is not always simply dragging you along with it. You are not helpless anymore, pulled by your emotions in whatever direction it is they want you to take at any given moment. What's left, then? Responsibility, accountability, unromantic notions, those, a little bit too much reality.
Life has not been easy, really, and then it has been terribly easy all the same. All of the little tragedies aside, all of the anguish and emotional trauma arranged carefully into rows, columns, categories - varying degrees of failure. Not all mine. I am not as unkind to myself as I used to be. I can let someone else take the hit every now and then (probably).
I guess all I am trying to do is remind myself that when one is doling out the forgiveness, they should probably save a little for themselves. Why are we all so fucking hard on ourselves all the time.
If I make it out of my own head alive, I'll send a postcard.
Love, always.