To do nothing. To slow time down, go over the past, carefully writing within the margins, as if I am editing a personal essay and explain each word, each mistake, each action again. The find a purpose to some of the thoughts, actions and the awful, the giddy feelings. To know why, to be destined, to be unified, cohesive and on the same page, with similar histories. It's simpler to write than it is to feel, to reorganize, to undo the tangles of faith, fate and destiny, and personal accountability. It is easier to smooth the crinkles on a page with some words on it, than the crinkles of my soul that's been deeply blundered, offended and hurt.
I don't understand how we keep running in circles, having said all of my precautions, having sounded off all of my alarms, bells and yelled so loudly that all the men from my past has heard me. It's unfortunate that sometimes, we only learn by treading on the delicates of others.
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