You know, I’ve hurt a lot of people over the years. Some of them might even be reading this. Walled up inside my head, peering out of firing-slit eyes, feeling only my own needs, I’ve done a lot of clumsy harm that I still can’t forgive myself for. And so I keep saying I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I swing wide between trying way to hard and letting it all fall through my fingers. Usually the latter right after the former.
I don’t know why some of you still talk to me.
Real love is being able to look out from under someone else’s forehead, and see yourself as they see you. I wish I could do that, even for a fraction of a second. I wish I could expand outside this constricting cranium that chokes my emotional windpipe.
Have I ever helped? Have I ever made it better? Because on days like this all I can see is where fumbling attempts to make things right did more damage instead. And it made me so angry that it took years to come into the fullness of my shame.
Can we wipe the slate clean? Can we say that was someone else? This character called Avdi, I have barely begun to flesh him out and already there is so much baggage. I am writing myself into existance but I think I spend more time doodling and lining-through typos than I do filling new pages.
Please forgive me. I am still not fully here, eyes darting, ahead, behind, out the window – everywhere but here-and-now, with you in front of me, expectantly. I have lost a quarter of my life in this fashion. Now I am dropping these words like anchors, hoping I will believe them, hoping that they will capture and evolve me as a spell binds a wandering spirit.