I’m not ungrateful. Painter’s gift is really a reminder to myself that she is not who she pretends to be, and because of that, I owe her nothing but time and distance.
And I wrestle with myself for repeatedly giving you the benefit of the doubt because in the quietest of quiet I know this is your pattern and you aren’t going to change. And in the stillest of still moments I find I still care about you and your suffering.
A man cannot live one life fully split between two moments, two gardens. Inevitably they both will be overtaken with weeds. As I continue to tend my garden I recognize we reap what we sow. There are still weeds in my garden. There will always be weeds and they are my weeds.
I planted these. I will tend to them.
Pain isn’t the enemy. Suicide isn’t the answer.
A bit of this thing and that.
People do what they know how to do until the emotional cost of change is less than the emotional cost of protecting the status quo. We all carry a load that was cast there through the fire of experience.