i can't imagine a more honest stretch of two weeks for which i'd been through so, so many emotions.
i wish i could have them all back.
my greatest, perhaps only, regret is that i could never explain to you the things that filled my heart, in a way that would make sense to you. that itself, for my words to have floundered, is witheringly, scathingly harrowing.
i finally understand listening to debussy. i get it now. fragility, preciousness, nostalgic echoes and evocations, courage, truth, nobility, sadness and beauty, solitude, the quietness of tranquility, gentle, wonderful, profound progressions. and music is the best.
i realise how much i want to prove to you that you were wrong. that i was right and that i would always be right, about you, about me, and maybe about us. i doubt any force on earth could convince me otherwise. but you would not see it as i saw, as i felt, believed, trusted, hoped, dared, prayed and loved.
i feel that my anger towards God has helped. i think it was part of the process, and really, that alone, i don't think i can judge that. it was necessary, and it was a process, and i think having come back to being ok through all that, i don't think i can judge that. the truth was that being angry towards God, deathly angry, has helped.
but i'm not angry anymore. some strange kind of acceptance has flushed over my soul. peace perhaps from accepting that God could only leave it to another's choice whether or not she might love me, or perhaps, that someone infinitely, impossibly more suited might love her too.
and so i prayed to God, not for my own sake, never, but for no mas.
no mas, ok, Lord? no mas.
