Something strange is happening. It’s mid-winter but it’s a perfect mid-summer’s sunny day.
Yesterday I thought, right, I’m ready to write the book. Felt v. strong and inspired and forward moving. I thought at last have gained wisdom and insight into what I did and didn’t and couldn’t. Have learned lessons. That’s what counts, right?
Which somehow transmogrified into it’s no use blaming —– and —– because they have their own stories to tell also. Who knows, if they wrote blogs, what would they say about me?
Then felt horrible about all the things that I’ve done which have impacted awfully on other people in my life, especially in my 20’s. Oh. Some of them I might never have the courage to write about, and no I didn’t kill anyone. But how can I write a book pointing fingers when I don’t tell the whole truth about my own misdemeanors towards others? Granted, I was much younger, and I wanted to change and hopefully have, but still but still.
Moral dilemma thrashed about in brain for uncomfortable and irritating period. Am I pointing fingers? Of course I am. No no, I’m not saying they were bad, I just want them to say sorry. That’s all. Sorry. I don’t blame —– and —– for my falling into the great hell-hole or for my ignorance or for anything that’s about me, just want them to hold themselves accountable for what they did. That’s it. Nothing more. I say sorry when I mess somebody around. Why can’t they? Small child stuff. Don’t want to punish anybody. Just bloody say sorry. I won’t even need you to grovel. Well, maybe a bit.
Today, dilemma unsolved I’m just sick of the story of my bankruptcy, sick of identifying with it, sick of my past, sick of both —– and —–. Plain and simple.
Need to be more spiritual probably. But failing that I’m going down to the beach.