I'm beginning to understand what I've done so fucking wrong these past two-and-a-half decades.
I'm grateful for my mistakes, yes, and I could say that this is how life goes, but it hasn't gone anywhere for me, no, not yet.
And those break-downs were all true as love; vindications so bright I couldn't see the freedom in despair.
And that doctor keeps telling me to take those pills and sleep with the rest of you. But I'm ready to believe it all was wrong, it was all wrong.
And I could tell you where the steps begin, where all the paths will lead, from baptism to my blood, the sex and the love . . .
yet the stairs will crumble before you reach the bottom, and you will come to realize as Eve once saw that she was naked, that all of your salvations are your own pages turning, and discovery will, too, belong to you, and only you.
Let me forget everything, not to suffer again learning the old mistakes, but to know they were never mistakes at all, they were the beginning of something greater than myself, which I wait to discover in the face of death.