Leaky Faucet

I am the enemy, not him. This is always my conclusion. This is unfair. To me. This is too narrow. Now it is not the conclusion but only my first reflection. Then I am nicer, more objective, more fair. To me. To truthfulness.

I waited until I was resentful before I brought it up. This made it less than favourable to commit energy toward fixing. This I easily concede. I was, at least, in parts, at times, passive-aggressive, antagonistic, accusatory, negative, already gone. I could have lovingly stated what I needed to go forward. Together. With him. I didn’t. So I won’t know if it was the issue itself or my poor address of it that was the catalyst of our demise. I know that I can’t always be graceful and pleasant and fun to be around. I am a writer of many drafts before the heart-melting poem! I know that I have forgiven and stayed. I know that it hurts to read ‘so long’ through a mere note.

I heard the dripping tap. I made him listen and then he heard it, too. Perhaps more loudly and unforgivably than me. I rambled, as he said, about its noise and the slowly-filling basin and the water bill and the impending flood. Yes. That was me. Perhaps he inferred it was best to let the ship sink, then. That this was what I was saying. I didn’t say that. He did. I feel cheated out of my get-out-of-jail-free card, of old-fashioned notions of staying, trying, effort. Of enduring the ugly parts. Of empathy. Of forgiveness.

The giver of the writing assignment on love, conflict and joy jumped ship! The tap still drips. I hear it alone. So what is conflict, then? In this case, conflict is a cold and convenient good-bye.


À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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