Every time someone said, “You’re full of yourself”, I used to feel ashamed or guilty somehow. I thought, how could I be full of myself when all I’ve done is care about protecting everyone around sometimes predicting consequences before they were in near sight.
Over the years, many voices came by and repeated that sentence time and again. For a while, I shut the voices out, I didn’t let them enter through this wall I’d constructed brick by brick. Each brick was created from incidents that broke something inside for being misunderstood, misjudged and misinterpreted.
I decided I didn’t deserve the world. Something didn’t fit right with us, either I was born too late for my time or a little too early. I stayed behind the wall for so long, I had no one but myself to tell me what was right and wrong. I made my own shade of black and white, and it often overlapped someone’s grey.
I thought I let life pass by me through the years, stumbling into mistakes and rising through the lessons. Then I paused, just for a second, to look at myself in the mirror. I looked, right into my own eyes, deeper and harder; as if searching for my soul somewhere inside.
I watched my reflection standing, tired yet hopeful of a time better than this. The burden of holding on to details of the wrongs did nothing but hurt inches of skin that bear the marks. I could see it clearly now, how each atom of my being is mine. The ones I then saw so purely assemble themselves – I etched them, I held on to them, each missing piece is what I’ve let go, for the wounds to heal.
I let go of blame on myself and others, I let go of the bitter, I let go of the slipped moment, I let go the gone.