Tag: untitled

Sometimes I think about the phrase “forgive and forget” and I always laugh to myself because that doesn’t sound like me at all.

The best case scenario would be “forgive, but don’t forget” because forgiving is a choice, but forgetting isn’t. Even if forgetting were a choice, there are some things that shouldn’t be forgotten.

Someone that hurt me–oh, I’ll forgive them, if they’re someone important to me–but how do I know they won’t do it again in the future? How can I protect myself if I forget what you’ve done? Forgiveness doesn’t mean you’ve regained my trust, simply that I still want you in my life.

Then, I suppose, next would be “don’t forgive, don’t forget.” Some things shouldn’t have to be forgiven. Some things are too awful, too cruel, too terrible to forgive.

There’s a point where even your loved ones can let you down, a point when you have to take them out of your lives. And it’s important to remember why.

The worst, though, is what makes me laugh the most, though not in a happy way. Because the thing is, I feel like I’ve done this, I just don’t remember: “don’t forgive, forget.”

Keep my grudge burning in my gut, but don’t keep track of where it came from. Let that righteous anger stew until I have no idea what caused it in the first place.

Forgive and forget, isn’t that funny? Why would I ever do that?

—

It’s hard to tell how awful you’re being in the moment at that moment. Sometimes it takes hours, days, sometimes even years before you can gain enough objectivity to step back and tell yourself the truth.

I was awful. I was cruel. I was terrible.

But once you realize that, it hits you repeatedly. Sneaks up on you long after the matter has passed, long after you can make amends.

I’ve cut people from my life for far less, how could I ever expect better treatment from others. Wouldn’t they be better off without me?

And so I run, I leave. I let radio silence turn into distance turn into a steady goodbye. How long has it been since we spoke? Do we even count as friends anymore?

No, probably not.

But thanks for being my friend, then. Thanks for being with me, then. Thanks for the good memories, even if they’ve been punctuated by bad.

I don’t like saying sorry, because it always sounds like an excuse, but thanks I’ll give gladly even if it means goodbye.

~

A/N: A little bit melancholy, sleep schedule’s still all over the place, and work is hectic.

Everyone has those days.

You know. Those days. Those horrible days when awful things just compound on each other and at the end of it, you’re going home in wet socks, shoes in a plastic bag, steps squelching and uncomfortable and a headache blazing through your brain.

You wake up still tired, and clumsier than the norm. You think, maybe, it’s just a poor night of sleep, you’ll adjust in a bit, maybe after you eat. You run into a wall, knock over a glass, glittering shards all over the floor.

Wake up, shake it off. Come on, get it together.

But then you get to work–the crowd of others commuting, radio playing a song you hate no matter which station you switch to–and it doesn’t get better.

Computer acting up, not even in a way you can fix. It’s hardware, not software, and there’s nothing to be done. Whatever, this was going to happen sooner or later, the company’s been meaning to get a replacement, you’ve been tasked with making back ups just in case for the past two months, but the supervisor still lectures you about it. As if you had taken a crowbar and smashed it in, rather than pushed a button and it failed to start.

Maybe after your break, just a quick one. Maybe you’re dehydrated, maybe you just need a breather.

Thirty minutes later, you’re in the warehouse; you’ve dropped a box on your foot, nearly tripped over a pallet, and if it weren’t for your new gloves you’d have a bleeding gash in your palm. As it is, there’s still a cut on your arm, sluggishly oozing bright red.

Supplies, that should be safe, right–off you go, to the suppliers, just drive safely you’ll be fine. Construction on the road and a moron stuck in the middle of an intersection, everyone honking their horns futilely as if that’ll help. It doesn’t.

You get to the suppliers, something’s been back ordered, you’ll have to come back in three days. Fine, at this point, you’ll take what you can get.

Outside you step in a six inch puddle somehow, never mind that it hasn’t rained in months and the entire state is in a drought. You grit your teeth and bear with it, hope to god it’s water you’ve stepped in. Slip off your sodden shoes and drive back in wet socks, pedals pressing back against your feet.

Incoming call, who could it be? Your least favorite client of course! Always so familiar–standing too close, trying to touch–constantly calling and sending emails, changing orders, asking how you are, requesting you in particular. You make sure you’re never alone during deliveries, and your coworkers acquiesce, but they don’t understand.

You know this day isn’t going to go better, but you just don’t want it to get worse.

Get home–surprise!–the landlord’s nephew is staying for a month in the room next to yours. You don’t actually mind: if it were any other day, it’d hardly be an inconvenience, but on this day it just builds up and you have to swallow down the irritation. They could have told you sooner. But rent is cheap, the location is nice, and you’ve just organized your room to your liking.

Shower, take some painkillers, go to sleep. Hope things are better tomorrow.

This is what it means to be the child of immigrants:

You eat the food, but don’t know the language spoken over meals. You have the principles, but not the history behind them. You have the ethnicity drawn out on your skin, but not the land of your ancestors.

You only have half your parents’ culture, desperately trying to fill in the gaps with what you see around you. And so you end up with an amalgamation, not quite Other but still not the same.

—

When nostalgia is the most positive emotion you’ve had in a long time, you may want to consider a lifestyle change.

But it’s hard to remember what it’s like to not be tired and angry and sad. You find yourself nostalgic for more than just food and places and friends. You find yourself nostalgic for yourself, the yourself you used to be before.

You find that summer makes it worse, the stretch of daylight mocking and cruel. But maybe that’s a lie. Maybe you are just being nostalgic for winter–romanticizing the briskness of the air and the cool rain on a parched land. Maybe you hated the cold wind, maybe you hated the constant damp and you’ll think that you miss the warmth and brightness of summer.

You look out your window and yearn for better days.

—

This is not your place. A space you rent, a room of your own, but its not yours.

You can hear the snores of other people through your wall, you tread lightly in common areas, only speak when spoken to.

It’s been a long time since you sang out loud and you think that’s a shame.

~

A/N: I’ve been needing to purge some more negative emotions and also I’m stuck in a car stuck in traffic.