As improbable as it is, sometimes I wish I can go back in time, and fix things or prevent others from happening. I know that it does us no good to dwell in the past, but when horrific and tragically traumatic instances occur in our lives, it is hard not to wonder “what-if?” If only a different choice was made that day, or something else was said, things could have been totally different. Don’t get me wrong, I would be entirely too scared to ever change anything because I would be fearful that the tiniest perceptive change or difference would forever alter the course of my future, and I kind of like where I am now. But I can’t help thinking that this desire is nothing but selfish anyways. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if this ability would just open a whole other Pandora’s box of problems regardless, and that life is exactly where it’s supposed to be. Except what then about the deaths of loved ones with lives cut tragically too short? Or why must some of us suffer at great lengths only to never know love or happiness? Can any of it ever be changed?
All of this to say, it really sucks when you look back on some of your tattered and withered relationships. Why do grudges keep people from being able to forgive and to rekindle those bonds? What if all of these people wait far too long, and by the time they want to fix things, it is already too late? After all, life has shown us time and time again how much too short it truly is. Does holding onto the pettiness of a grudge of a relationship once soured do us any good in the end? Or is it just slowly poisoning ourselves and making us sicker and sicker as we hope the other person feels just as badly? I sometimes miss people so strongly in my life that it hurts. And I think that the only thing worse than missing someone who has passed on, is grieving the loss of a person still alive. If you know you know, and I truly sympathize with those of you that can relate, but I will still always hold onto hope that one day things will get better and improve.
I always think about how I could just wake up tomorrow and get hit by a bus. After all, the only guarantee that every single one of us will have in this life is that one day we will inevitably die, and it will all be over. Even being able to wake up tomorrow is not a guarantee. Sometimes, I have to quell my own anxiety into thinking I am not going to die every single time I leave my house. This is why I hate flying or even being the passenger in a car; I am not in control of the outcome and I always fear the person in the driver’s seat (or pilot’s seat) suffering a momentary lapse in judgment or a panicked impulse/distraction and causing a fiery inferno of an accident leading to my ultimate demise. Morbid, I know, but I also understand the statistical probability. Then I work myself into a frenzy thinking about the things I never got to do, the shows I never got to see properly concluded, and the relationships I never mended and resolved. I don’t want to die not having done everything within my power to fix things.
I am no means a perfect person, and am so terribly sorry for any pain and hurt that I have caused someone. Nothing will ever hurt me as much as seeing the people I love and care about suffer or be in pain, particularly when it is emotional anguish. I wish I can take away all of their hurt, and even if that means I have to bare it all, so be it. I just don’t want to see them sad anymore. I would apologize a thousand times over, and swallow any amount of pride just to fix things. I don’t want this short life consumed with the guilt and sadness that comes from fractured relationships, especially when things don’t have to be the way that they are. I miss people that I just want to love and I hate how I think about them every single day because it makes me so upset. I know people can relate to that sadness, and I hope that one day, things will get better for them too. Until then, nothing I can do except to keep trying, to keep hoping, and to keep wishing.
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Dead indited content material, Really enjoyed reading through.
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