Contemplative Confessions



I don’t hate you. Hate’s a strong word, I couldn’t possibly think in such a destructive way.

But I don’t like you.

I did at once.

Ok, that’s not true either, you just drove me crazy. The ambiguous nature of your actions, the silence locked in your lips, the lack of awareness, care, empathy, understanding and overall obliviousness to the back-and-forth plight you put me through.

Charming, to say the least.

Sarcasm aside, your negativity drew me in. Maybe it’s because my brain’s naturally wired to embrace the cynic. I still don’t know what you wanted from me. If I had to guess, I think you just liked playing with me and enjoyed the entertainment. I’m a clown at heart, but that’s the only side you ever embraced.

I can’t completely blame you, I fell for the game hook, line, and sinker.

My friends knew something was up, but I didn’t heed their advice. My interest was piqued. I couldn’t figure you out and I refused to accept it.

I dug for something more under the shallow surface in vain.

But who am I to say that’s all you are. The truth is I don’t know you, I thought I did. To me, you embodied a fantasy, but my vision detracted from the reality. I’ve accepted this. I’m moving forward. I have much more important things to deal with than you.

But tell me this?

Why do you continue to linger in my life? I think you miss the clown. Sorry, but I’m not performing for the ones that constrict me to a box.

Even if the audience is beautiful.


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