Revisited...

I wrote this a while ago but seems relevant again...

An open letter... first attempt... perhaps of many...

I am sorry... I am sorry that I cannot, for all my attempts and intentions, love you. I do not mean love you with my heart, for that is without question, and never in doubt. Instead I am sorry that I seem unable to love you with the rest of me. I am sorry for the expression of my love. I am sorry for always seeming to get it wrong. I am sorry that I cannot express with my mouth and with my hands that which is so strong and clear in my heart, that which I feel so strongly that I fear I will explode if the expression of it is not at least attempted. And there, perhaps, is the problem. I am forced to try to express a flood with a faucet. I am sorry that I don't know how to love you, how to show you, how to offer proof. I wish that my heart was transparent so that you could look directly inside and see that which is contained therein. That all the jumbled, myriad thoughts and feelings could be expressed as a laser, clear, focused, direct and true, slicing through all the noise, and all the interpretations. Cutting direct from my heart to yours, forming a link of true expression, with all static and interference eliminated in its wake.

For now this is all that I have, and all I can do is beg your forgiveness and offer the promise that I will keep trying, I will keep loving and I will keep hoping that one day I will get it right.

Sincerely,

brad

Driving home from work today (listening to Wilco) I was reminded of this letter that I wrote (but only published here). I once again find myself unsure of myself. I am lost. In my attempts to be understood and known, I have come up short yet again, or worse. The thing that I seem completely inept at expressing is that I say things with the knowledge that I hold nothing against you. You have not injured me, nor do I hold you responsible for my, MY, feelings. The truth is that I don't know if there is anything that you could do to change my mind about you. So when I speak, I speak in that knowledge and perhaps with a sense of freedom that is not earned because the entire picture that I have of you is not shared or known to you. You see what I have said, and feel in your own heart a reaction to that. How could you do anything accept that. You don't know me, not through and through. (And how could you as I have shown yet again that any attempts that I make at an expression of my own (often skewed by my limited knowledge of you) feelings do not come in the context of my entire range of thoughts. My head swims with even the thought of that statement.

And yet, without expression starting somewhere, even imperfect, even minute, there isn't really hope for the future. And it was in this spirit that I express myself, hoping that the person that hears me will have that net of safety to catch the pieces because the pieces are parts of me and in catching them you will catch me. That they will have the same net that I use to catch them, any small, shattered, broken, beautiful, soiled or pure piece.