Memoirs

Cleaning out a room is always hard... You go in the top of your closet... Find that old box of stuff that you buried under everything in order to hide it from yourself. And face it, you can't just walk away. There's a reason you kept the stuff right? So, you open the box (although you know you shouldn't). And all of those things you didn't even know that you had... the little things... the papers, and tags, and photos, and bottle tops... They jump out at you and catch you off guard. A page in a yearbook, or a scribble on a sticky note.
And it's not about losing those things. All of a sudden you've grown up and those things are far far in the distance. Two years ago at the least.
What's worse is that it made me realize something. That for all the things that I did, that I had to do for me, that I will never ever regret doing... I can finally feel the weight of what I've done. And it makes me sad. It makes me sad to know that I blew it off like it was no big deal. Like I wasn't breaking someone's heart and altering a major part of what they had come to be familiar with as their life. Quite frankly... it kills me. Because as sorry as I can be, I didn't say it soon enough. I had to do what I had to do, but that doesn't mean I had to let go of compassion. Whereas I will say that I wasn't the only one who was wrong, my anger at being accused was no excuse to blow off another's feelings... they were understandable. Maybe I'm seeing it now because I realize that more than anything I lost a very very good friend, and that nothing will ever be quite the same. Maybe it hurts because I know that I have yet to be forgiven... Or that I know that my words will mean nothing to the person they are intended for... Or maybe most of all, that I know that I have no reason to be forgiven.
And that's why I will more than gladly accept what karma has given to me... Because it's my turn now...
I'm still sorry.

You know who you are.