It rained and stormed all night and into the morning. As cliche and over-written as it sounds, her mood did indeed match the rain as it drizzled and dropped outside on her balcony.
Her expectations had been dashed and through her eyes, she had been put aside in favor of a better time. In her heart she knew that they thought nothing of it. It wasn’t that her friends were unkind people, they were just people, ordinary people, living life the way they thought it should be lived. And she, the one who thought she lived by the credo of letting people be and live the way they should see fit, was now holding people hostage by her own moralistic code. It had made her bitter and angry.
When did she become such a selfish and hateful bitch? Her life had been easy in comparison to others. Maybe not as easy as richy-rich but pleasant enough. When did she let go of her free thinking and embrace the black tide of a cynical mind? Perhaps she never was that free in thought after all.
The lightbulb as it’s said, beamed. She was idealistic not genuine. She liked to think herself a poet, a lover of all and most of all a person who did not press her own theology or ideas of right living on others. But when it came down to brass tacks, she was as judgemental as a TV preacher. She gave people liberties in word only, in her mind she kept things tightly bound. She made snap judgements and allowed her emotions on the subject dictate to her how she should see things. If it made her angry, she decided that it wasn’t good and she was right. She never stepped back to see WHY it had made her upset.
And now, she was asking why. Now, she was beginning to understand herself. It made her feel heavy and sad. That is a simple thing to say but it is the closest to how she felt. Maybe it should have made her feel very sad or horrible but instead it made her just plain sad.
She had been deceived. And the deceiver came not as Lucifer, Jesus, Allah or any other religious figure-head that often takes blame for such things, it came robed in her skin. The deceiver was none other than herself.
“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”
— Augusten Burroughs