..since I’ve recently realised that blogging helps articulate the millions of thoughts that whirl through my every day existence. And I feel this need to make some sense of what I’m feeling. And I have a desperate urge for some closure so the regret can stop rearing its ugly head every now and then, and just fucking rest in peace already. (Or maybe its because I made that black dal finally and had it with rotis and salted lime onions on the side. And it reminded me of how much there is left to do, that its a pity to waste time in silence, harbouring anger and fucking regret.)
Its probably a bit foolish that I still hope and wonder if you’ll come out and talk about it. If we’ll ever go back to being our mad selves. A few years ago I probably would have thought there is hope. Since I am a creature of habit, and am easily trained by repetitive behaviour. But given how the past few months have gone, its becoming very apparent, that it probably wont.
And yet, I can’t help but ask. I can’t help but make another shout in the dark. I wish you’d just let me know. Really. I hate living with regret. I hate it more than anything else. When I think about you, all I feel is fucking regret. Because I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did. I dont know what happened to you. All I have is a permanent question mark. A void that will never be filled. And as long as things are this way there will be regret.
What did I do to deserve this regret? I wish I knew. I wish you’d do me a favour, and just tell me.
Signing off in complete madness,