Sometimes It Happens

by gm stevenson

Sometimes it happens that, without warning, the weight of all your mistakes falls upon you with such force you feel you might break.

It is night, and you are walking out of a building, minutes after someone told you, "I don't want you to go." Wet leaves are falling into the light of a streetlamp outside a church, and your life suddenly looks like a long series of things that were wrong – words spoken when silence would have been better, words withheld when they were needed, harm caused to yourself and to others when no harm was necessary. Songs not sung. People hurt, people let down, so many people, so much hurt.

You want to just get through each day without causing harm, and you often fail at that. And sometimes it happens that your life seems to comprise nothing else.

And then you see the broken glass on the pavement, and the steam on the window of a bus as it moves through the rain. The leaves, the bus, the rain, you. After all the wrong turns you have taken, you are still here, where you are, now, moving, with this night, this rain, this.

a scan of greum's chop

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