in a somewhat unrelated note to the previous, lengthier post, the bus ride back home from town gave me a lot of time to think about the things that have plagued me in the past months:
somehow, i feel like everything that has happened is penance for something that i'm not sure i've done wrong. i'm really not sorry for most of my decisions, even knowing what resulted from them. i regret not being honest with the people i've lied to. i regret the way i've told the truth. but in the end, i don't think i've done wrong, even though everyone seems to think i'm to blame.
sometimes, i wonder what effect words even have in all of this. i've written and said so much, and gotten nary a word of relevance in return. my truth, through this entire chapter, seems to invite only silence from everyone else.
i'm amazed by the absolute cruelty people inflict on each other. i've given and i have received. perhaps this is how the world works.
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