One thing I hate
more than uncertainty is certainty. Predictability is the kiss of death.
In life, there should always be a revolving door of different
characters. One in, one out, a few constant, a few distractions. (No, if
you are reading this, it’s not you. You are not a distraction and this
is not about you.) There should always be something new occurring in our
lives. I am generally tremendously good at reading people, I’m rarely
wrong (Yes if you are reading this, I said “rarely”.) I know when to
walk away. This is me walking away, but not from you.
Like a few people in my life, I have decided you should be my constant, as you have stood the test of time. You, the proverbial you, have been in my life long enough to also know just enough about me; to know where my weakness lies and where my strength is. You find me both irritating and remotely interesting. You think you know me but you won’t admit that to yourself. You are both secure and insecure in your assessment of me, for I have known to walk away. History has a strange way to paint pictures. I was told by a few that I tend to walk away. I don’t like closures so I simply walk away. I walk away when I was hurt, I walk away when I knew this won’t end well. But enough time has passed. Enough history has been written, told and retold. Each layer of history tints the truth just a little, and soon enough there won’t be any truth left. It’s just two people, trying to figure out how to begin, how to re-begin, how to repair, how to amend, and how to pick up the pieces and imagine a world anew.
So as I said before, I shall be your constant, always.
Like a few people in my life, I have decided you should be my constant, as you have stood the test of time. You, the proverbial you, have been in my life long enough to also know just enough about me; to know where my weakness lies and where my strength is. You find me both irritating and remotely interesting. You think you know me but you won’t admit that to yourself. You are both secure and insecure in your assessment of me, for I have known to walk away. History has a strange way to paint pictures. I was told by a few that I tend to walk away. I don’t like closures so I simply walk away. I walk away when I was hurt, I walk away when I knew this won’t end well. But enough time has passed. Enough history has been written, told and retold. Each layer of history tints the truth just a little, and soon enough there won’t be any truth left. It’s just two people, trying to figure out how to begin, how to re-begin, how to repair, how to amend, and how to pick up the pieces and imagine a world anew.
So as I said before, I shall be your constant, always.
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