Read it and flame me.
After what's been said and done,
I think, I may have gone too hard on her.
Yeah I know. Everyone told me to stay away from her. She's bad news. No bones to pick with that single statement alone. She was oil to my being of water. She was the capitalist element to my communist ideology.
In short, cannot get along; never did and never will ever again.
But me, being only human, I am naught but without my feelings and my memories. Especially, being a writer, I seem to have been more in tune with my emotions lately. My words, all that I have ever written, would always contain a vestige of my emotions in them.
And these are the very feelings, that may have convinced me of being too hard on her.
First and foremost, I am not reiterating what I feel for her last time. I have been hurt too much and left in the dark even more, to even remotely consider the feelings I have inside for her again.
Too much had been said, too much have been heard; the only thing that's left between me and her is just the chilly silence of being strangers.
I have heard of her, through friends of various quarters, that she's not having exactly a stellar time with her past two companions. Ones that promised the moon and would probably give the sun thrown in as well. Ones that would expect that their words, to sway a broken girl inside, gifts to sweeten her shattered heart; shattered as many times at it is.
These are the ones that would anticipate what little effort they made into pleasing her emotionally and materially, into something they want, that only women would provide. It would be poor taste to mention here but I would give a hint; it ain't cooking.
I do remember her as someone who was happy, who would brave the harsh wintry coldness of her barren life at home, and still put up a smile at the end of the day. I recall her being the funniest person alive at the time, and the most colourful, although she carries a heavy baggage of bittersweet memories and experiences.
I can accuse her of having ulterior motives when she wrote that little (albeit lengthy) letter to me. Maybe it is because of the rage and hate that never died within me, I suspected the letter being a pitching of a snake oil business. Everyone else that I knew, had heard my rage tales one too many times, deduced that it is indeed something that is tinged with poison. The poison that which will make me her slave once again.
But for all I know, I did not hear what's on the other side of that bridge.
I did not ask her, actually what it means. That whole lengthy excuse of an apology. What does it signify? What do you want with me? It may be an actual plea to talk, be friends. I know not of what she is going through.
Wherever you are. Take care. I may not see things the way you wanted to, but I feel sorry because frankly, I am only human. And more fortunate for you because me being someone who's involved in the arts more than his science, I feel what is written.
And unfortunate for me, I still feel sorry for you, in contrast of what you did in the past.
I think, I may have gone too hard on her.
Yeah I know. Everyone told me to stay away from her. She's bad news. No bones to pick with that single statement alone. She was oil to my being of water. She was the capitalist element to my communist ideology.
In short, cannot get along; never did and never will ever again.
But me, being only human, I am naught but without my feelings and my memories. Especially, being a writer, I seem to have been more in tune with my emotions lately. My words, all that I have ever written, would always contain a vestige of my emotions in them.
And these are the very feelings, that may have convinced me of being too hard on her.
First and foremost, I am not reiterating what I feel for her last time. I have been hurt too much and left in the dark even more, to even remotely consider the feelings I have inside for her again.
Too much had been said, too much have been heard; the only thing that's left between me and her is just the chilly silence of being strangers.
I have heard of her, through friends of various quarters, that she's not having exactly a stellar time with her past two companions. Ones that promised the moon and would probably give the sun thrown in as well. Ones that would expect that their words, to sway a broken girl inside, gifts to sweeten her shattered heart; shattered as many times at it is.
These are the ones that would anticipate what little effort they made into pleasing her emotionally and materially, into something they want, that only women would provide. It would be poor taste to mention here but I would give a hint; it ain't cooking.
I do remember her as someone who was happy, who would brave the harsh wintry coldness of her barren life at home, and still put up a smile at the end of the day. I recall her being the funniest person alive at the time, and the most colourful, although she carries a heavy baggage of bittersweet memories and experiences.
I can accuse her of having ulterior motives when she wrote that little (albeit lengthy) letter to me. Maybe it is because of the rage and hate that never died within me, I suspected the letter being a pitching of a snake oil business. Everyone else that I knew, had heard my rage tales one too many times, deduced that it is indeed something that is tinged with poison. The poison that which will make me her slave once again.
But for all I know, I did not hear what's on the other side of that bridge.
I did not ask her, actually what it means. That whole lengthy excuse of an apology. What does it signify? What do you want with me? It may be an actual plea to talk, be friends. I know not of what she is going through.
Wherever you are. Take care. I may not see things the way you wanted to, but I feel sorry because frankly, I am only human. And more fortunate for you because me being someone who's involved in the arts more than his science, I feel what is written.
And unfortunate for me, I still feel sorry for you, in contrast of what you did in the past.
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