as you move through your life, you pass through different phases, or chapters i guess. some of those transitions you can see coming and plan for accordingly, and some you actually plan to have occur. others just happen or sometimes -- in rare, and often painful occasions -- are forced on you; pushing you forward into the next chapter of a book where you have no idea where to even establish solid footing or grasp the story line that's just transpired. regardless of what type of transition you experience, they all share one thing in common: that transition is propelling you forward.
i don't know that what i'm doing is right, or if it's conversely wrong for that matter. but i can't stay here any longer. i've done nothing but sit and stagnate in the past year. more specifically, in the last few months. and as a result, i can feel myself rotting away from the inside-out. this city isn't a city to me anymore. it's become...okay, you know when you watch a movie and it has some scene where the survivors (or in some cases, a lone survivor) are walking through the remains of his home town or city that was completely decimated by a war? As he walks he's just strolling along through nothing but smoldering wreckage everywhere, blasted landscapes and bodies strewn about of the people he once knew and loved. That's what I feel like. That's what's left. Nearly every inch, street, building, mountain, park, nightclub, hotel, hospital, and school campus in this city has a cluster of memories attached to it, and most of them topped off with recent ones that are excruciatingly painful. With those new searing memories of hurt at the top of the pile, they're successfully preventing me from being able to create new ones to cover them up and move on to whatever it feels like to be okay again. Call it running away if you want, I really don't care if any one approves or not, but I can't stay here any more. The piece of paper I've been writing on has been written, scribbled, sketched, drawn on, and then erased too many times, and all you see are millions of old pencil indents and marks and faded, sad grey traces of what once was.
Time for a new piece of paper.
And while I'm about to place this new piece of paper in front of me and start writing, there are certain things that I know I will never, ever truly get over. That one regret that you will always have, even though you try to live with no regrets, because your story is your story and it's who you are and how you've learned what you've learned: the greatest regret and one that will never ever leave me is how I successfully destroyed and lost any happiness I had with you. I want nothing more than for you to be happy, as happy as I once was with you next to me, and more. I know as I'm writing this, I am the farthest thing from your mind and probably haven't crossed it in a while, nor will I any time soon, but at this point, I'm hoping that some day we can at least be around each other without you not caring if I was struck by a car at that moment or not.
And that's all I have to say about that.
I think I've done all the damage I can do here.
Bye Sin City. It's been real.
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