All this time I've been saying to myself, why don't you care about me enough to remember me, make time for me, do something as simple as calling me when you say you will, ink me into your calender, take a couple of hours every few months to get together for lunch?And then this morning I woke up and realized, a thought there in my brain as if from nowhere, sparked perhaps from forgotten dreams: it's not me you won't make time for, it's you.
You're always running around to make other people happy, to fulfill the obligations that lay so heavy on your back. I used to ask myself, why can you never put me on a level of importance with all that?
Why did it take me so long to see that it's because you can't allow yourself to give a high priority to something (me) that is purely for yourself? That it's not me you're neglecting (in your mind, in your psyche), it's you.
Because I hear it in your voice when you think perhaps we will meet. I hear that, amongst the tide of draining tedium and pain, it is something that will bring you joy. And you have (you imagine, you create) so much responsibility, joy means guilt.
It isn't that you can't give that little to me. It's that you can't give that little to you.
