To have been spared my harshness, coldness, weakness, and most shameful, is that not something?
A long time ago, I did what I felt was right. I doubt I could have been any more in love than I was then. I failed. I took failing as it was, failing. It took a long time for me to understand what happened, what I did, what failing meant. For a long time, I wondered if I fucked up, if I was destined to be fucked up. For a long time, I fought to remember who I was. And finally it was revealed to me, and finally my mind could see, that my love was nothing. I hated that ending, that despicable, bastardly ending, but I knew that I could embrace it as it had embraced me. My love was nothing.
The next one, I don't know what the next one was. In a way it felt like a giant wave had ruined me, and as the waters receded I could not quite prevent it from slipping through my grasp. Oh, it is one thing to feel deadly angry, it is quite another thing to understand that in the end, love was nothing, again.
All this time, I always managed to somehow drag myself back onto a little rocky outcrop that refused to crumble away. On it was written, in the sand, a few symbols which would depict a man in a man that would not die. I traced it often with my finger and repeated the motions on my breast. There, he was meant to be, and not to die.
And now I realise that I have no idea what I'm fucking doing. And even that doesn't matter, maybe never will. Maybe that man cannot be put to death, maybe the man must live, must overcome, cannot be shut out from the light. Maybe I am he all this time. Maybe I don't know what I'm fucking doing, and it is no bad thing, in the end.
In consolation, then, to be spared all my villainy, all this time, is that not something?
