I've been lying to myself, I'm afraid. I've been lying to myself because I felt, deep down, that there was no way I could deal with the cold hard truth.
Until now, perhaps. As that cold hard truth presses onto my chest and pins me to the ground, I remember that I have surprised myself before. With my resilience. With my strength. Even with my resolve, misplaced though it may be.
I constantly seek answers to unasked questions, expired years ago. The answers don't matter anymore. I'm no archaeologist, qualified to poke and dig through the ruins of my own past, hoping to uncover some scrap of knowledge that just might help me in the future. Or the present.
I yank and strain at doors, long rusted shut. I tell myself that I have another chance, but for what?
I don't know. Something.
But there are no second chances. There are only similarities. So that I can say to myself, If only I can do that one tiny thing differently, everything will be better, this time. Everything will be great, this time. If only I can find out what that one tiny thing is.
I have tried to resurrect the dead.
And I've failed. So now I need to focus on the living.
The truth sucks sometimes.