A road of solitude

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I guess it’s sad to admit, but there are so many things in my life I wish I could have done, or handled, differently. It’s only been recently that I’ve been so closely faced with the complete imperfectness of my humanity – with the reality that I am not, and will never be, perfect. And this is hard for me to accept. Not that I want to be perfect (because…really…what is perfect?); but rather, I want to know that the percentage of things I do right is greater than the percentage of things I do wrong. Come to think of it, even this post could be a wrong action – mainly because it’s borne almost solely out of hurt and confusion. I guess it’s my heart’s way of lashing out like a whip of words.

I sometimes want to hit my head against the wall so hard that all the faulty bits contained inside have no choice but to fall out – and fall out they will, because I choose to believe they’re not as strongly routed as the non-faulty bits. Yet still, my imperfections and faults gnaw at me like a rat gnawing at a rope in the dead of the night, in the hope of releasing something. But then I need to remind myself of this concept that I will fail again…and again…and yes…again. And perhaps, the sooner I accept that those times will come, the sooner I’ll be able to deal with the concept and it’s consequent actions more appropriately.

I believe though that part of my tendency to hold on to my past mistakes is the desire to want to undo any hurt I’ve caused. How can I undo any hurt if I don’t somehow stick countless numbers of plasters over the wounds that have been inflicted? Oh but how my soul cries out in desperation for those nearest me to simply understand that my intention has never been as bad as the actions, the words, or the deeds. In most cases, they’ve been mere cover-ups manifesting from a place of wanting to protect myself, guard myself, make sure the wound is not inflicted on me. But the irony of the situation is that at the end of the day, it is indeed me who is wounded. Over and over again. And the cycle of running around trying to fix things just starts from the beginning and ends the same way.

In the past while I’ve faced the darkest time of my life. Perhaps it has seemed to be the darkest, because I have a different insight into things and I can understand things on a different level. Before, I may have just glossed over things and not really understood their magnitude – but lately, the disturbing verocity and magnitude of actions, words, thoughts, feelings, compulsions and intentions have hit me squarely in the face. I can say that I’ve done well to still be standing in the midst of all that’s happened – and I don’t think a single person could ever understand just exactly what has transpired and how it’s felt or affected me – and for that reason, when I close my eyes at night I really can tell myself “well done…you’re getting there”.

It seems to be too much to ask others to be a little more introspective – to examine the things they do or say, to make sure of their intentions or the effects of what they’re about to do. This makes for a road of solitude at times – a sad reality I guess – but reality nonetheless…

 

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