I’ve been lying awake the last few days, heavy with the thoughts of all the mistakes I’ve made. For some reason, they’re all hit me like a freight train; hard enough even to keep me from the things I hold dearest. I don’t know when I got old enough to have regrets, but it’s happened, and it’s here. I never understood regret. To me, it was never too late to go out and get what you want. But the fact is, I’m out of eligibility to play soccer, and I’m too old and too tattooed to model (or not tattooed enough, depending on the market). My dreams were enough to last a lifetime, but they somehow fell short. Or I guess, in all reality, I did. I’ve made decisions that I’d rather not think about, first turning my back on my first Love, then again on my second. My aided betrayal of the one thing I loved most for another caused so much resentment that the second time came way too easy. I’m ashamed of it. I think about it everyday. I feel guilty for being happy, and I hate feeling sad. Lose/lose.
If you don’t know me personally, that probably looks like a word search; jumbled letters that only make sense if you find important words and draw circles. But if you’ve walked with me over the last 8 years; if you’ve stayed around to the present, it should make perfect sense. I don’t know how to reconcile happiness at the perceived expense of another. I don’t know how to allow myself that happiness.
I’m a compass that points north, but can’t move when the world does. I’m a ripped package full of good intentions.
I’m tired of twisting and turning at night, I’m tired of being tired.
The only thing that puts me at rest is using my camera, so here’s the most recent set of photos that for a moment reminded me that regardless of past mistakes, it’s ok to feel the happiness I’ve got.