The Memoirs of Realization

28 November 2004

11:46 P. M.

It is a painfully curious thing, to realize that one does, in fact, love something when it is, indeed, too late for one to ever be near it again. I had forgotten how to love anything but him. And after he left, in time, I forgot how to love him. So preoccupied by all my grievances and mistakes, and how I truly believed that I never deserved what did deserve. I began to think that the only solution was to place myself as far away as possible, as fast as I could. And yet, one cannot run from emptiness.

I strongly believe that one who does not admit one’s own faults (to oneself at the very least) is only adding that to their list of negative qualities. Therefore, I admit to you, here and now, my biggest fault: I am one who dwells. On mistakes, on things that once were (good or bad), but most importantly, on things that could have been. So very smitten by my fantasies, pretending there is hope, that the real opportunities in live are ever so invisible. And then the dreams end and all that are left are the self-pity and the self-doubt.

It must have been proven somewhere, some-when, that one has to posses a certain amount of confidence in order to function properly in society. A confidence long smote in me by the failure of my fantasies and the lack of emotional sustenance these dreams provide.

Why? A million-dollar question, asked countless times and never answered. I, now, fall, yet again, out of my delusions and back into this half-life that I will never be content with. The life I can never un-choose.