Friday, 23 April 2010.

You're not talking about me, right? Not about me?

We always build ourselves up such beautiful castles, out of our childrens' building blocks, because at last we're old enough to dream.
And they have turrets, and spiraling staircases, and flying buttresses- whatever those are. And they're huge and beautiful and so intricate, almost as though they're real, and we look at them and it's like the world is spinning.

Then somebody pulls out the stone you borrowed, the tiniest piece that isn't wholly yours, and it all comes crashing down, and it hurts so much.

I'm sorry, so sorry, even if it was never me; for all I have done and for all I have failed to do. For all the little things and all the times I've betrayed you. It can't help, can it, to say I didn't mean to-- but if it's me, just tell me, and if it isn't, it says enough about me, doesn't it, that I can't even be sure----and for that, too, a thousand apologies.

If you don't want to be my friend, even to talk to me anymore, that's fine; just say so.
But I'm sorry.
Even if it isn't me.
I'm sorry.

{ 6:24 pm }