Why is it that when it’s my turn to get mad or angry or fucking pissed off, I can’t do it properly? Why the bloody hell can’t I snap at someone for being so idiotically offensive? Why, pray tell, can’t I be like the lot of you, swearing and cussing and being unjustifiably blunt and coarse about my words so I can express the rotted feeling that you people give me? Why is it that it’s bad when I get angrybut when you fucking mess up IT’S OKAY??
“And that’s the thing about giving your heart away.
You never know when you’ll see you’re missing a piece until you find out too little, too late and you didn’t notice that you were bleeding.”—Jessa Anderson
I was mad at you. Like any other dream, my anger was governed by the indefiable logic of the dreamworld and so I did not question it. I was just mad. I felt it and I accepted it.
We were at my school. My old high school, in my hometown, or rather our hometown. There was an event. There was music and dancing and laughter. But I wasn’t one with the joyous spirit. I was mad.
You came up behind me. I folded my arms, a defensive stance I have mastered over time. You were smiling an almost mocking smile. You told me you were sorry you were late. You say it three more times, and asked if we could just get something to eat.
My walls were breaking. I never could stay mad at you, but I resisted and turned away, not saying anything. You knew I was close, so you did what you always did in this situation. You wrapped your arms around me in a tight embrace and rested your head on my shoulder. You whispered your apologies, hidden beneath light laughter. I did not budge. I will not.
People were staring. I saw a few classmates, shocked at the display of affection. I could read their faces like open books. I didn’t know they were together! But you didn’t care and continued apologize, not breaking away.
So I did it first. Pushed you off and stared at you. I wanted to reprimand you. I wanted to show you I am capable of anger. I couldn’t, not with you staring at me like that. And so the dreadful feeling waned and I smiled. I clung to your arm and said I like blueberry pancakes as you laughed that booming laugh of yours.
I woke up, slightly confused. It felt so real, like a memory instead of a dream. I can still feel your embrace. But I know it was a dream. I am sure of it. Because I didn’t know you back in high school.
People say sorry too often, but don't apologize enough.
They think sorry is a magical word that will ease the pain they have inflicted. They say it in a hurry as a band-aid. As if sorry can erase the misjudgments, the derogatory comments, and the offensive remarks. As if sorry is the glue that can piece a heart back together. As if sorry makes them a better person after attacking another.
Sometimes people don’t even say it. They like to think that they did by saying 'oh my god, it was a joke, I didn't even mean it', like those words have the same connotation as the word they don’t dare say.
Other times, when people do mean it, it comes too late, like a hero delayed over the traffic of indecision. The victim drowned already, and your sorry, the one thing that may have saved him, the proverbial rope that could have pulled him to safety, was not there when he needed it.
If we think about our actions more, deliberate on them rather than throwing them out mindlessly, maybe we don’t have to say sorry too often. Then, maybe, sorry may mean an honest and heartfelt apology once more.