The Wound

I thought forgiving was easy.

It had been a sleepless night. I remember gazing through the white ceiling of my room that had gone dark. I was tired, but just couldn’t sleep. Myself reminded me of a baby who was drained of all her energy and yearned for a sleep but ended up only crying all night.

Wondered if day was a man, it might be so devastating to wake up with the reality that night wasn’t as long as it seemed to give him a damn rest. I either needed a rest, but this mind was too rapid to give me what I wanted. Of course, not that memory. I hated it winding up wallowing on this part of my head where I kept all those things ready to dispose. Things I should not have reached any more.

Hated it when it ended up like this.

Sometimes I thought I have forgiven some people, until time like this I realized that I kept remembering things. How I felt, how I’ve been treated, the pain and everything.

Maybe people are right (oh they’re always right). The wound heals, the scar remains.

God.

Thought forgiving was that easy.

 

 

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