The true luxury of being a living, breathing human being was the ability to chalk anything up as a mistake. We, humans, were blessed with finite lives to make infinite mistakes. No one was auditing our insignificant lives. So, it would be rather easy for me to call you one.
It wouldn’t be up for debate either. Anyone who hears the story—at least, my side of it—would laud it. All I have is my side of it; you never did tell me yours. Yet, I’m learning we can’t play it both ways.
The point of loving someone, the whole act, happens while knowing your heart may be broken, eventually. You can’t blame someone for tearing you apart. I can’t blame you for doing it either. So, there’s nothing there. No anger, no remorse.
I once told you: I don’t mind what you do with me. I still stand by what I said that day. There were better mistakes to be made. The point of a mistake was to learn something from it. As for me, I haven’t learned a thing.
The other day, I told a stranger more things about myself in one hour than I could keep track of; I went on and on, and she listened. At least, I hope she did. Now, that would be a mistake I make often: to go on and on about myself.
Yet, some of us could not help but carry our souls on our sleeves. Hearts were easy to carry; easier to give away. Souls, on the other hand, especially heavy ones like mine, were quite a burden on the arm. Perhaps, that is why I spilt myself as freely as I did. My arms were tired.
It’s true, we had infinite mistakes to make, but we remembered them all. That was the curse of being human. You could make all the mistakes in the world, and the world would forget about them all. But, in your head, the tiniest of blunders would stick out like barbs.
And you and I both know, if there’s one thing I would want to forget, to wash away, to never remember again, it would be your face. Not out of spite. I could never despise you. Only because I want to look at you, hear of you, think of you, and feel nothing for a change. I’ve felt way too much for you for way too long.
So, no, you were never a mistake. On good days, you were a blurry memory of a life that never happened; that was all there was to it.