Like anyone else in this world my life has been a mix of successes and failures. Of making good choices and terrible mistakes. For the most part one has often served to balance out the other. It’s where that balance hasn’t, or at least has yet to, occur that make life difficult. Some time ago I made a mistake that took four years to truly play out its consequence. It was a mostly wonderful trip from that first mistake to the eventual end but that success doesn’t balance out the failure that was to come. I realized that mistake on some level as soon as I had made it but not enough to have taken it back. I’d love to say I had the ability to do that now, to right every wrong or at least move forward from them, but I’ve always known on some level that I wouldn’t have the opportunity. It is a sad fact that I must face made sadder still by the fact that I am part of why that opportunity will not arise. It becomes a depressingly cyclical conversation over the realities of that situation. If I hadn’t made the mistake I wouldn’t need to rectify it, if I didn’t need to rectify it I wouldn’t need the opportunity, and the mistake is one of the reasons I won’t get the opportunity. The whirling vortex of thought involved in even writing, let alone knowing what it actually means, that sentence could drive a person crazy. If I hadn’t have made that mistake I might not have lost something special and important to me. If I hadn’t lost it because of that mistake I wouldn’t think I could have it again if I fixed that mistake. And if I hadn’t made the mistake I might have been given the chance to prove that I could make up for that mistake and all the rest that happened because of it. But it comes back around to the beginning again and the cycle continues again and again and again. I need to get off this track and get onto a hopefully straighter path because I’m getting dizzy and the mental vertigo is making me sick.

To boil all of this down:
I’m a fucking idiot who made his bed and, because I made it so damn well, I can’t do anything to get out of it. I just wish it wasn’t a bed of nails. Should’ve figured out what went wrong a long time ago, then I’d still be sleeping on a pillow-top with memory foam and I’d be happy still. But I didn’t and now I’ve got to find that miracle position on this thing that doesn’t cut me nearly as much. Or at least not as deeply.



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