a reminder, or a notice

Lest you thought me stupid, lest you thought I didn't notice, didn't care, didn't have the capacity to understand, just in case there is any chance that it makes any difference at this point

I know I was stupid, again and again and again

and again

The justification reflex doesn't help. Indignant ranting doesn't help. Nothing helps; it is what it is. I couldn't make the best of it. I marshaled my ugliness and kicked my own ass into China, and no part of it was fair.

Why are you still here?

Big changes make me look back. I don't see much anymore. There is the wall, and the trinkets I pile there every day so that when the barbarians see them, they will pick them up and turn back.

My doubt that I can speak plainly to you, dear reader, is a function of my reluctance to talk about it and my desire to be private with the things that make my future look like a bunch of clauses awaiting a question mark. I don't know what it's worth to anybody who might get it, anybody who read and listened to hours of simpler thoughts that, despite their directness, were heavily rationalized and no more honest; but to this day I'd rather just accept that people stood by me rather than try to understand it.

I get mired in my own judgment, and I just don't get it. Is there an upper limit on colossal mistakes, beyond which they all cancel out? Did I just declare moral bankruptcy and move on?

Is it time to stop looking back, even in this limited fashion?

I get to live my life on the far side of that discontinuity. It's so weird, and it's so good. I am loved. I still have a history, even if I don't always see it. All the people I spent years waiting to meet are still here.

Thank you, always, for reading.