Ah, Gomen, gomen, mea culpa,
Is what I sometimes want to say, yet cannot,
Could not seem to find the perfect words for it,
The perfect apology for this hand I've been dealt,
It seems to not exist, not for this cup I bear,
So I am to apologize in different languages,
I am to gnash my teeth, numb the chatter in my head,
And say how sorry I am,
How remorseful I felt every time I failed to,
Properly connote these chaotic thoughts,
To elaborate on the many ramblings,
Of all the many voices in my head,
All the numerous quirks, though contradictory,
Seem to scream their many preferences,
Like they sought for supremacy,
These voices rage on and demand precedence,
So every time I kept silent and sighed,
There were notions left unexplored,
A sentence redacted, a grievance unspoken,
Am I to be blamed for the many voices?
Would you deem to punish me for their neverending ruckus?
Whom shall cast the first stones?
I ask of them to tell me this,
Who should be blamed for my ordeal?
Who is to be held responsible for this cup?
This cocktails of jousting personas and tendencies,
My trial of hyperactivity and contradictions,
A roaring cast ensemble of stubborn voices,
Heavily irritated yet mildly pleased,
Sometimes unsure and simultaneously skilled,
At creating whirlpools of misconceptions,
All of which intensely bleeds,
Out onto my connections,
Smearing my relationships with blood red chaos,
Flowing through the contours and crevices,
Of the social and emotional structures,
Built on the rare moments of clarity gotten,
When all the many voices stop talking.
Oh, they do stop talking, temporarily,
When I give in to the peaceful lure of sleep,
When I lie there, dead to the world and the voices,
Unable to count sheep or plan my funeral,
Not writing tragic tales or quietly begging my mind to listen,
In those moments of serenity, I know true freedom.
So I wonder, who would say to me,
"Sorry, it's not your fault, I see you, I see you".


© The boy who raged, 1683.