You may ask yourself, how did I get here?
It's a good question. I found myself this week, trying to explain the inexplicable, to justify the absurd. I'm not sure why I started off down that route, other than it seemed like a reasonable conversational gambit at the time. Later as I felt hot tears welling unfamiliarly behind my eyelids and the heavy concrete weight settling familiarly on my breastbone, I knew I'd taken a wrong turn. Whatever I said was going to make things worse, so I just stopped talking.
And as we know, it's the things I don't say, the stories I don't tell, the fears I don't share, that are the most important.
When I contemplate the full reality of the choices I've made, it's no wonder people strap on their running shoes and scram as fast as they can. Either I must be a cold-hearted monster, or a pathetic self-abasing wet blanket. Neither holds much allure.
But then I never felt I held much allure anyway. It's not rocket science to work out why I might have sold myself short. I made the choices I felt I deserved. Doesn't everyone?
You may ask yourself, am I right or am I wrong?
And you may ask yourself - my god, what have I done?
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