The Truth Of It All

If I could, I think I'd make myself feel nothing at all for the trickles of information I get, passed from babbling brook to babbling brook until it flows by my ear as I sit soaking my feet. If I could.

But I can't. And it kills me so. The truth is, and if I'm being entirely honest, I want to go back. But not wholly. Never wholly. I could not be formed into complacency after all I've heard and seen. Besides, I don't think I've had a whole thing in my life. I even doubt that I, myself, am whole. Am I wholly me? No, I've been shaped by others like a rock is shaped by the elements.


If I lie to myself and others, I'll say that I want to go back to get the insider's view. The real behind the babbles, to see and smile as everything falls to pieces in the lives of those I once called sisters. I want to be a spy, of sorts. I want to know everything that goes on. It's all curiosity, it's all revenge.

But I think that's only a single faucet. It's not true nor a lie. It's just there.

To tell the truth that I am just beginning to uncover myself, I want to be back in that group because they seem to have more fun uncontrolled and unburdened than I have controlled.

I can only hope the grass looks greener on the other side for both groups.

There's another truth, itching at the back of my mind. But these truths are slippery. They're coated in my hopeful ignorance. I don't want to be this person. I want to be perfect, not flawed. It won't happen, but I keep trying anyways.

I know I could fix this all. I have the power, I do. But what is the power? It's the power of lies. I could say I'm sorry, that I forgive them. Or more, there's nothing for me to forgive them for. I could smile and laugh and fix this all.

I could do and say all this, and it would be a complete lie; I do not feel sorry for anything I've done, for I believe everything I've done so far has been right. I do not forgive them for what they've done, and I don't think I ever will. All I want to do is hurt them, terribly. It's a horrible thought, but there it is. Maybe, for all my improvements on my temper over these years, it's all gone inward. Into thoughts. Into plots and plans that I won't carry out because 'I'm better than that.'

And yet, it is ever so tempting. If I wasn't as straight-forward and anti-drama (which I suspect is due to mere laziness on my part- I simply do not want to put forth the effort to lie, cover up, and actually go through with plots and schemes), I could be a very, very mean and cruel girl. How do those who are like that do it? How do they find the energy? I get through the day and by the time it's eleven I'm exhausted but still have so much I should do, and one on the list being sleep.

And, as it is going onto ten o'clock and I smell of horse, I need to do numbers 1-3 on my list- Shower, Read, Sleep.