Maybe You, but Not Me.

An Open Letter…

If I wrote to you every day in real time, not allowing myself any redactions, only additions, how long do you think our relationship would last? How long would it be until I wrote something that should just never have been written? Something so blatantly reprehensible in retrospect, that even I must be taken aback by my own words…

I could claw for qualifiers subsequently, of course — new words to redeem the old; to redeem myself. And maybe I could even convince you. But then where would that leave us? Would we be closer? I suspect what’s truer is that we’d be even farther from each other than we’d been prior; for having betrayed the original, authentic spirit in favor of acceptance. But acceptance of what? Maybe you, but not me.

What exactly could I ever hope to salvage in retreat then? Your respectful attention, I suppose. But then, how long should I expect to hold it before you begin to realize it is not me that is there at all, but merely a self-empowering reflection of you? How long do you think our relationship would last then? Perhaps much longer than I might be able to stomach… Assuming it was even I that was there, of course. Which, as previously established, I would not be. It would be someone else. Maybe you, but not me.

Sincerely yours,

I am that I am.