mistakes not worth making [1/2]
Title: mistakes not worth making.
Rating: G
Summary: I have learned to look at every mistake like it is my last.
Patrick,
Everyone is entitled to mistakes. A world without mistakes would be a world of grey fog, solitary ideas and convictions. Found in the forms of relationships, friendships, actions and words; causing pain, heartache, misery and distress.
Out of this stormy cloud of miscalculations, comes a ray of hope, and new knowledge.
With every good there is a bad.
With every action there is a consequence.
With every mistake there is a self realization.
As you and I both know, mistake is a word I know very well. Both syllables haunt my dreams equally in a mess of sleep and twisted sheets. The word seems to follow me like my own demented shadow, and it’s no ones fault but mine.
I know what you’re thinking.
"There he goes, taking another charcoaled line off his never ending list of excuses."
Not this time. You don’t deserve my dramatic antics, and web of lies; not any more.
This may seem like another inevitable apology letter; another genius cover-up. I swear on everything that we’ve made, and everything we’ve built up together that it’s nothing like that. Just hear me out, before you toss me out; like you’ll toss out this paper and never look back. I’d say you were being a little harsh, but I deserve it all. A life to be lived at the bottom of a plastic receptacle is my destiny; devoid of air, life, and love.
No one really fully knows themselves. One never really fully understands another. So in this world of strangers, we are left to figure out generalities through context clues. Through life we come across a variety of characters; some to be erased immediately, and some to remain in the scrapbook that is our memory. Strategically cut pictures, are placed in an arrangement of color and vibrance. In the normal mind, that’s how it works. In my mind, it’s all a scatter of old fashioned TV’s lined with fuzz, and empty of color. I’ve tried so many times to turn the numbered dial, but it always seems to stay tuned to the same station; me.
I’m a self-centered, egotistical, heartless being. Or, at least that is how I’ve portrayed myself. I am the epitome of everything you aren’t. I claim to hate drama, but drama is what I live for. I don’t get caught up in drama, I create it. Life is drama; it’s all the same. Everything is interchangeable.
I’m not at all comfortable with myself, not like you. I can’t embrace my faults and distinctions. I’m not much for change either. I’m actually rather obsessive compulsive. I promised you I would always be true to myself. I cast out lie after lie, and you took them all; hook, line, and sinker.
I know I’m a constant put down; on your self esteem, your confidence. You never gave up on the hopeless. Behind the snickers, deceit, and fabrications, you always shot me with that curiosity. Your eyes tell magnificent stories. I think that’s what kept me from completely throwing my life away. My mouth never let out anything but condescendence, but you did an amazing job of disregarding the motion of my tongue and lips to focus on the openings to my mind.
You were too forgiving.
You were too determined.
You were too trusting.
I was too lucky.
No one can comfort me like you can. You can disintegrate all of my pain, and you were more than grateful to extend it to me on that cold, silver, easy to reach platter. You would run your cool fingertips over the emotional artwork extending the inset of my arms; deep, painful, intricate scars. They are well since healed, but I never failed to shudder under your touch. You were my doormat. You may think that’s all you ever were. It kills me to think I burned that thought into your innocent little head.
I made you cry. Most people think crying is a sign of weakness, but when you cried, I deemed it beautiful. I loved running my thumb along your cheek, following the river of tears across your flawless skin. Everything I said could be repaired by my repentant and earsplitting words. I knew, and I used it. I abused it. I brainwashed and confused you.
I never knew what it was like to fall apart. Like the end of a ribbon, when it frays off into nothing. Truthfully, I never wanted to know what it was like. I guess popular demand made it inevitable. Feelings are something I was never good at allocating. I thought maybe, if I kept everything inside, I would never get hurt; there would be no reason to. I can’t be right about everything. I thought I was; I thought wrong.
I love you. I hate you. I guess there were too many for your taste. I gave myself too much credit. I was too confident. I built myself up, only to come crumbling down into shambles.
I underestimated you. I screwed up what I had with the most internally beautiful, compassionate, and incredible person I have ever known. Seems pretty cliché that it took me until the end to realize what I was losing.
I appreciate you, and everything you have given me; every lesson, every tear, every word.
This is the last mistake I will ever have the chance of making with you.
I have learned to look at every mistake like it is my last.
Thank you for that.
Peter
Rating: G
Summary: I have learned to look at every mistake like it is my last.
Patrick,
Everyone is entitled to mistakes. A world without mistakes would be a world of grey fog, solitary ideas and convictions. Found in the forms of relationships, friendships, actions and words; causing pain, heartache, misery and distress.
Out of this stormy cloud of miscalculations, comes a ray of hope, and new knowledge.
With every good there is a bad.
With every action there is a consequence.
With every mistake there is a self realization.
As you and I both know, mistake is a word I know very well. Both syllables haunt my dreams equally in a mess of sleep and twisted sheets. The word seems to follow me like my own demented shadow, and it’s no ones fault but mine.
I know what you’re thinking.
"There he goes, taking another charcoaled line off his never ending list of excuses."
Not this time. You don’t deserve my dramatic antics, and web of lies; not any more.
This may seem like another inevitable apology letter; another genius cover-up. I swear on everything that we’ve made, and everything we’ve built up together that it’s nothing like that. Just hear me out, before you toss me out; like you’ll toss out this paper and never look back. I’d say you were being a little harsh, but I deserve it all. A life to be lived at the bottom of a plastic receptacle is my destiny; devoid of air, life, and love.
No one really fully knows themselves. One never really fully understands another. So in this world of strangers, we are left to figure out generalities through context clues. Through life we come across a variety of characters; some to be erased immediately, and some to remain in the scrapbook that is our memory. Strategically cut pictures, are placed in an arrangement of color and vibrance. In the normal mind, that’s how it works. In my mind, it’s all a scatter of old fashioned TV’s lined with fuzz, and empty of color. I’ve tried so many times to turn the numbered dial, but it always seems to stay tuned to the same station; me.
I’m a self-centered, egotistical, heartless being. Or, at least that is how I’ve portrayed myself. I am the epitome of everything you aren’t. I claim to hate drama, but drama is what I live for. I don’t get caught up in drama, I create it. Life is drama; it’s all the same. Everything is interchangeable.
I’m not at all comfortable with myself, not like you. I can’t embrace my faults and distinctions. I’m not much for change either. I’m actually rather obsessive compulsive. I promised you I would always be true to myself. I cast out lie after lie, and you took them all; hook, line, and sinker.
I know I’m a constant put down; on your self esteem, your confidence. You never gave up on the hopeless. Behind the snickers, deceit, and fabrications, you always shot me with that curiosity. Your eyes tell magnificent stories. I think that’s what kept me from completely throwing my life away. My mouth never let out anything but condescendence, but you did an amazing job of disregarding the motion of my tongue and lips to focus on the openings to my mind.
You were too forgiving.
You were too determined.
You were too trusting.
I was too lucky.
No one can comfort me like you can. You can disintegrate all of my pain, and you were more than grateful to extend it to me on that cold, silver, easy to reach platter. You would run your cool fingertips over the emotional artwork extending the inset of my arms; deep, painful, intricate scars. They are well since healed, but I never failed to shudder under your touch. You were my doormat. You may think that’s all you ever were. It kills me to think I burned that thought into your innocent little head.
I made you cry. Most people think crying is a sign of weakness, but when you cried, I deemed it beautiful. I loved running my thumb along your cheek, following the river of tears across your flawless skin. Everything I said could be repaired by my repentant and earsplitting words. I knew, and I used it. I abused it. I brainwashed and confused you.
I never knew what it was like to fall apart. Like the end of a ribbon, when it frays off into nothing. Truthfully, I never wanted to know what it was like. I guess popular demand made it inevitable. Feelings are something I was never good at allocating. I thought maybe, if I kept everything inside, I would never get hurt; there would be no reason to. I can’t be right about everything. I thought I was; I thought wrong.
I love you. I hate you. I guess there were too many for your taste. I gave myself too much credit. I was too confident. I built myself up, only to come crumbling down into shambles.
I underestimated you. I screwed up what I had with the most internally beautiful, compassionate, and incredible person I have ever known. Seems pretty cliché that it took me until the end to realize what I was losing.
I appreciate you, and everything you have given me; every lesson, every tear, every word.
This is the last mistake I will ever have the chance of making with you.
I have learned to look at every mistake like it is my last.
Thank you for that.
Peter