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It Coulda Been Me

Most people who have done something "wrong" won't admit it unless they get caught.  Sometimes, not even then.   Maybe that's one of the reasons I am not part of the "most people" demographic.  You see, right, wrong or indifferent, I simply see flawed.  And that's all of us. We, though, need categories, hence our invention of the hierarchy of evil, bad, neutral, mediocre, good, great, exceptional, etc.  I just don't believe in all of that nonsensical mental filing in order to figure out who I can surround myself with or not.  Or even, how I am allowed to view myself, and provide myself with value.  

Simply put, I'm human.  Everything about me is flawed.  I have moments which are exceptional, moments which can be seen as wicked or evil, moments of mediocrity; truly these are just results from things you try to do and have strengths in or not.  Love, for instance; My rating would be in the bottom 10th percentile I am sure.  IF there were actually a rating system for that.  Say, you take my number of attempts and somehow equate that with the length of each reign that seemed to be going well divided by the total failures, sort of like a turnover rate, I actually probably just lowered my rank.  

This verse in a song that never ceases in making me cry goes, "there's a time that I remember, when I did not know no pain; when I believed in forever, and everything would stay the same.  Now my heart feels like December...".  I get it.  I remember the other side of me.  The glory of my dreams, my pure, pure, unfiltered heart and the vision in my mind is right there, in a picture frame, on a shelf, in the back of my mind.  Then, I was great.  And had everything stayed the same, then, it coulda been me.  Loved.  

But the lights went out and I sat by that frame in darkness.  When the hurricane blew threw, I let it.  I protected nothing.  The frame fell, broke, and cut my life to pieces.  Then, I sat some more, hemorrhaging.  Sabotage.  You nailed it!  I am a saboteur.  You name it, I've destroyed it.  Love, friendship, reputations, careers, self-esteems, looking-glasses, lives, egos, the self.  Mostly the self.  It's a tricky thing how external things can influence an internal existence so deeply.  Even with this external vessel, the brain, thoughts, heart, soul, spirit, pace, and value are all penetrable by pain. 

You loved me.  You love me now.  But I gave you a hall pass and a clear escape route after showing you pieces of my scars.  And telling you their stories.  And making you feel like you can't make me un-see them.  But you did.  I lied I guess.  Every moment  you were present, I only could see you.  Bright as a thousand supernovas, you blinded me to them all.  But every time you look away, I live again inside the vision of my memories.  It coulda been me.  Loved.  But I unlocked the door to your own stars, and now, you're off to count them all.  I hope for you there are too many, and you are always too busy in the light to turn around again.  


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