By Austin B. Hahn
I’m sorry that I showed you I’m a human being. I was wrong. I was late. I forgot. I failed. I guess I shouldn’t have expected so much from myself in the first place.
You used to praise me and tell me how proud you were of me, but now you stare down at me as if I never had the permission to make a mistake at all.
How I wish I would’ve seen this coming. Like most lower souls, you stick around to rejoice in my success, but you flee when I fall.
I’ll remember. I’ll remember you. I’ll remember to be more discriminating of who I invite into my life. I’ll remember to only surround myself with those who are accepting of the fallible human condition.
Disappointment in itself is created in the psyche by the meaning attached to an experience. I let my failures teach me while you use them to antagonize me and wave them over my head. That’s okay, though. Your pretentious mask of perfection will crack one day, and you’ll be begging me to lend out a hand.
In the end, I’ll be the one with the Mona Lisa smile looking down at you, knowing that someday you would be in the exact same position that I was in.
You’ll remember. You’ll remember me. You’ll remember feeling how much of a fool you were to run away when I needed you most. You’ll remember how heavy the weight of your actions felt on your shoulders as you watched me walk right out of your life . . .