Why can't I seem to say, do the right thing at the right moment?
I am always looking back on some incident wishing I'd said something more, or something better, or just said something. But that moment is past and it's a done deed. No joy in that.
Would it have made things any better if I'd been prepared with the right speech, the right response, the right reaction? Perhaps things were meant to turn out the way they did, and any intervention in that order would have disrupted the reality of how things happen.
It's like that phonecall. That single phonecall is what I look forward to each week. Yet, everytime my phone rings and that number appears, I dread even picking it up. Not because I didn't want to speak to the person at the other end of the line. No, not at all. But because after each call, I'd regret the whole conversation. I'd regret not having said what I should have said, what I actually meant to say, or having said too much and revealing too much of what I wanted kept hidden. Everytime I hung up the phone, there was this queesy feeling of having made all those mistakes and what the consequences will be.
Maybe the issue here is honesty. If I'd been simply honest, I might not have had to be so guarded about myself.
But then, if I don't guard my own sanctity, who will?
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