I don’t mean to measure my quality against what I do but that’s what I do sometimes.

Sometimes I can’t help but see what I do, see what I’m given, and wonder upon the disconnect. It just seems, in certain respects, there’s this expectation and assumption that’s made that doesn’t quite marry with all that’s being said and told.

I know it’s my error.

I know that my opinion will as opinions do, and unfortunately I’m even more outspoken in the real world than I am here.

I know that I could’ve done things differently, but I also know that I’ve asked no questions in face of memories.

I forgive easily and often forget, but I remember. I remember when X occurred as vividly as if it happened right now. I know where I was and what I was doing. I remember the conversation, the conversations beforehand, the conversations after — I recall realising the deceit. I remember knowing it wasn’t meant that way but seeing that’s how it seemed.

I can feel so guilty.

I can feel so hurt and still search for their innocence.

I can find their innocence and forget.

I’m very good at that. I can find enough of my own blame to excuse anything.

But then I remember.

But then a high road is taken and I’m left on the verge, and whilst left there in the mud I reassess. I look back and I recall. I see my errors. I see what I’ve done and should’ve. I remember how I offer an allowance…

I’m just wallowing, really. I’m just blogging at midnight because I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m feeling ashamed and hurt. I’m feeling defiant and riled. I’m feeling unworthy again.

These are the wrong words. This is melodrama because I’m quite dramatic. Why say I’m sad when I can put on a show?


It would be nice if there was a little ‘rewind’ button.

Very nice.

But there isn’t.

Sometimes, I just think life is a little mean with the things it leads us to.

I just don’t like it, sometimes.

Ooo, I can you use my mother’s saying!

I love you but I don’t love the things you do

Shit, it’s aimed at me.

Damn, she’s right!


There’s my high road blown to dust.

Tomos James

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