It's now been two years (plus change) since the events of this post occurred. My wound hasn't healed or even begun to scab over, but I'm slowly learning to back-burner it, along with most of the deeper feelings that nobody really wants or needs to hear. There are far more important things happening in this life of mine—this thing, this episode, this... whatever it really is barely warrants a whimper, let alone the endless, piercing screams that emanate from within.
I'm sorry to be so cryptic, but I can't actually talk about this—not to my little blog, not to myself, not to anyone. No matter how I frame or word it, it would just sound like I was shirking, and I'm not. I'm really not.
Years ago, I made mistakes; those mistakes caught up with me in ways I could never have foreseen. It came up, it blew up. Now, I pay my dues. If that means being left alone to think about what I've done, then so be it.
I still swear I did the best I could, but it wasn't enough, and it was wrong. I didn't have the skills or comprehension to do better. It is what it is. I've spent the last two years in full-blown purgatory, and I honestly don't know how much more I can do. I still feel like I'm just going through the motions, and nothing has meant a damned thing since it all blew up.
The only thing worse than being cursed to haunt some place after you're dead is being cursed to haunt the place you live, for God only knows how long, before you've even died.
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