Sometimes I'm disgusted with the way I treat others, with the way I treat the ones I love. It can be as easy as startling cattle to say something terrible, to be hurtful and not be able to un-say it.
I look back at the awful things I've said and done and it's like everything around me speeds up and I'm stuck in slo-mo anguish trying to catch up to all the decent people in the world. Even at the time, in that very moment I'm spewing venom I can see this person that is definitely me and as he crafts and places each stone of vileness, walling himself in with shame, I'm helping to guide his hand. It's a perfect metaphor too, the piece-by-piece building of an insult, because with each word I know what I'm doing, how much what I'm saying will hurt and how too I could not say it and be better and make it right.
I've never known anything so surely as how good "I'm sorry" feels to say and hear. That truth is never obscured from me, but there's a self-destructive relish that chooses to ignore what I know is best and what I want most. It's a curiosity why some seem to be hell bent on tearing themselves down. I suppose there must be some that simply aren't and then those that just wear it better.
I don't actually believe that it's necessary to feel awful in order to feel wonderful, that chaos defines order. We're certainly born with enough innate struggle to achieve greatness without needing to invent our own tragedies. Then why do we? Why do I?
My New Year's resolution is to do it less, inventing tragedies that is, to be better, to say "I'm sorry" sooner, to need to say it less.