Reasons and Excuses

Between thought and action is reason. When we lose it, forget it, or worse completely neglect its value, we become animals imprisoned by our own self-serving missions rooted on an irrational culture set to stone by protruded impulse.

Few days ago I left my email open on Y's laptop. She accidentally opened it and saw an ex's name. This prompted her to read the exchange, or at least open what it started with. It was an email I sent with a poem in it. A poem I wrote in trance while my life is in transit, so to speak. The issue for Y was: why did I send the poem.

The answers to me were simple but the anger, frustration and distrust that clouded her mind were too thick, her grace was taken away. The little bit of it, if I may say.

I sent the poem because I wanted to send the message. Sometimes, when what you want to express is too personal, digging for words become tedious and even antiseptic. That's where resorting to pictures or symbols or prose or colors come in. I found my medium in poetry and decided to pounce on it. I wanted her to know, just know, or at least grant her a better chance of knowing what little I can deliver. I've been in the position of being left blind-sided and it was never fun and safe to sit with shadows. It shouldn't matter says Y. But I've no bad blood with A despite what happened so it mattered to me that I can do something like leave a trail to MY reason so she can someday, when she wants to, know the thought and understand the action. Y can't get that. She didn't have any reasons to be graceful.

So she did something, an uproar that I can't tolerate blindly, and that uprooted some of the things we nurtured the past few months. I felt/feel an anger and disgrace, shame and sheer disappointment over the person she decided to become. Denial, repulsion, hatred set in and I struggle to meet with acceptance and heart.

There is the monster that slept. There is her monster.

But the villain in me taps my shoulder, whispers understanding and empathy. And maybe there is reason why I'm willing to swallow. The action may not be thought through but the reason is shining over an airless box. For all its worth, Y exploded right before my eyes. Graceful or not, I'm at a point where I'd prefer that than someone who will speak of me heartlessly then pretend to be the soul to which my weakness can recline with.

So the poem was set free, free enough to be whatever it wishes to be. I'm happy with the butter that was churned, there could be better but that better world is no longer for the same spirit that ignited the first lines of my poem. The changes are still happening, forming worlds cornered by numbered streets, and these changes are mine, mine alone. Mine to decide with whom I would share it. Mine to build, hide, protect and cover with sealed lips, cryptic words and beating pauses. That although A didn't understand what I was saying, the message was sent. I blame my failed style in depicting my feelings with words, sure, but I also blame "the reason" why she was unable to capture the song between the lines. The reason is change. 

Change has taken over everything.