I’m staring at this blank screen, out of habit, feeling a surprising amount of guilt about no longer desiring to say another word. But the repetitious words seem to then only rot and make me feel even more sick in the very marrow of my porous bones. I feel that everything has already been said- at least in a type of symbolic semblance- and I’m left unreasonably ashamed with my ability to find what is maddeningly begging to be said, without evoking violent condemnation from myself and projectedly everyone else.
Like this white screen, I recognize that in some ways a blank slate is given to each of us everyday; that life could potentially become something of meaning or feeling if I could only learn to abandon cognizance of my chaotic thoughts and emotions to somewhere else far away. I know that they’re correct in the suggested notion of acceptance and/or detachment in order to move on- but from my vantage, only in the sense of being helpfully applicable advice on sterile paper. I really don’t know how people do it. Yet It honestly disgusts me in my seeming inability to make the advice that has supposedly helped so many others, help me too. Either I’m doing it wrong or it’s just a bunch of bullshit that goes right along with the hope were supposed to cling to in order to stay emotionally afloat another day while waiting for its endless lack of fruition; so the natural progression is then reportedly to change the definition of hope to settling in order to make the disappointment more palatable and explainable. I ask them and they tell me it truly helps, but only makes me feel even more apathetic and farther away from the truth that I know I need to reconcile before I can take a single step anywhere but backwards.
I always wonder if the gnawing never goes away for them either, and they’re just lying because the inescapable truth is intolerable. It’s hard not to look at when it’s so continually tireless in its all-consuming presence. Maybe I’m just stubborn as fuck or I’m a small person who can’t properly digest the burdens that I hate the most. God knows I’m terrified of the people who can see that within me. But if questioned, would have to confess it all with no defense.
But ultimately at this point, if I were to summarize everything I could ever have to say, every silent prayer, or all that I now feel, it would be with the simple words:
I truly am, with a thousand apologies and no one is more disappointed than I am every time.
I’m sorry that 1+1 keeps adding up to zero.
I’m sorry that nothing is simple anymore and the things that could be, were too late.
I’m sorry that I didn’t want their company Or that the things that are so easy and instinctual to most everyone seem insurmountable to me nearly every time.
I’m sorry that my actions say one thing and my heart another.
I’m sorry that they believed it.
I’m sorry that I can only acknowledge but not know your pain, I wanted to. I know how it feels, But only see when I’m too busy with my own.
I’m sorry for the times I was selfish; it wasn’t for desire, it was fear.
I’m sorry for destroying my life and myself, but still believing it was written in stone, and the only way. Or that it still is.
I could write a thousand apologies after more than a decade of decomposition, but know that they all offer still no change.
I’m losing my voice and have long lost my will, but I would never warn anyone about the ending because I don’t need saving. I think all I need, want, and am not sorry for is the one last thing I’ll do to try and feel better – or at least differently- for even just a moment.