I’m not sure.
About anything, I am constantly unsure. Of myself, of others.
People don’t mean what they say and they rarely say what they mean, so everything is left for me to interpret.
I read between lines I have drawn out myself, find meaning in the meaningless and make excuses for the inexcusable.
Because I get people. And people fuck up. People make mistakes but we must forgive them. Mustn’t we?
Or would life be easier if I chose to see things as they were, not for what I want them to be, hoped that they were or should have been.
Is forgiveness a fantasy?
Am I naïve to believe we can move past this.