To whom it may concern
I’ve grown.
Well, I hope I have. Inside of me I sit with a nostalgia that I cannot explain. I want to relive all that which has been lived. The beautiful times. The wild times. The bad times. The worst times. I want to inform anyone who I have hurt in this life that I have come to the conclusion that I have hurt you. Once again I have found that I am a hypocrite.
I’m listening to the Beatles as I write this. They sure know how to create a tension behind one's ribs to feel good and bad at the same time because of what one has done. I sit here in my room. Consumed by consumerism. Fighting against the system. I cannot look myself in the mirror without regurgitating. By day I say I fight for justice and reconciliation. Fighting against the system whilst feeding my consumed soul with Converse shoes and Hugo Boss perfume. Trying to hide behind the scent of killed beasts. By night I dream of being the best. Being the centre of attention. Being on the stage of life.
Such a tension.
Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. To travel feels like the only way to escape. Everytime I think of what I have done or might have created in you I want to travel.
Although I long for yesterday I feel that tomorrow bears more hope. I think back to China. Egypt. Zambia. Malawi. All over these places my past followed me. Travelling doesn’t help one escape one’s past. It helps one face the facts. When you are on a bus somewhere that is not your home you realise that you miss home. You also realise what or who home is.
What I have done to you is wrong.
I apologize.
I know this letter in itself is probably just a way to comfort my soul. An egotistic attempt to make myself feel better. To be able to close my eyes and not face all that I have done wrong. I’m sorry. I scream it out from within my “behind the ribs” space.
You are special to me. I adore what I have learnt from you. I shelter the fact that once upon a time you loved me. You love me. I don’t know what to do with what I’m feeling behind these ribs. It’s like every time I think of you my heart strings are pulled in different directions. I will never regret the good times we had. But every time I open the Gospel I feel convicted of all that I have done to shame you. To blame you. To make you feel inadequate.
Forgive me for I have sinned. Forgive me for I know not what I do. Did.
Forgive me for these words will never do justice to what I did. What I feel. Or how you feel. In fact I have written so many of these laments that I have acquired a skill to write them without actually feeling the words that I write.
Bleeding it out onto a cyber page will never reconcile hearts. But at least I as the hypocrite can now have some time off before I return to a blank page to write another lament.
I hypocritically feel the need to ask: "Who's next?"