Reading a broken heart several years old was probably not a good idea. The blush remains upon my cheeks and I still feel the shame of my bad behaviour. And I am left with the knowledge that I will always be silly and neurotic and full of clumsy excess in my address. Always I will write reams about my paltry life and – rather than sensibly diarize in a world of hidden paper - write to an audience. Apparently I need the audience, one way or another.
I have to wonder what is wrong with me that I not only would but have torn out my own heart and thrown it across screens, across the internet, across a world of indifference for others to mock, or trample, or ignore. The ignoring hurt the most, oh but don’t you know? Once upon a lovely decade I threw my words all over email. Haemorrhaged words across someone else’s inbox where, doubtless, they were deleted in haste while I repented in leisurely new emails. Letting go is not my forte.
I have spent a lot of time reading my old words rather than throwing together new ones. Regret, curiosity, shall we declare it the need for perspective? These are to blame or not. Perhaps I’m basking in former inglory or merely wasting time. It’s hard to say and I’m not sure that I care enough to bother. The horror of words past is knowing that they have left me unchanged. I am still the same. I am still explaining myself.
I wrote, somewhere, something about my self obsession being an attempt to understand the world through the only prism I know. Myself. Oh but don’t you see? I wonder if I’m just trying to explain and apologise to all those I know and don’t know for my erratic behaviour. I would behave sensibly but I’m a fool – can’t you recall how many times I’ve told you, how many times I’ve shown you? It bites its tail.
Forgive me, how often I’ve cried, I know what I am but I cannot stop myself. Cannot. Will not. In the end it doesn’t matter because I do not.