Eh well so i'll give you an idea of what I do during lit.
"I'm Sorry". Slated writing, almost seeming careless, if not for those two words, seven letters.
Was it a note of sorts, a confession, an admission to him or herself? I would never know. But what familiar words they were. A difference in penmanship, intention... It was still me who wrote it. Wrote it too. On countless walls, or detached white cement. Paper, or lonely bark, stretched thin. Even the sky, the express my grandest, all-consuming emotions, in plain plane fumes, blending in with the flock of warm white clouds.
So many meanings to a word often taken for granted, often regarded as tired, one-dimensional. But it has a life, albeit a sad, pitiful... Well, sorry life. Even it's apologetic tilt. No. More... Regretful.
Do I regret alot? Of course.
But there are some things which I am so incredibly sorry for, the rest of my life would not be enough to say it. Yet, these things I will never regret.
It couldn't have been louder, at a better or worse time. They are shrieking under their breath, with their heads down, while I sit here alone, gazing over treetops and at the optimistic blue above.
I do keep coming back to it though. Just glancing.
Just making sure it's still there.
I'm sorry you are more than words on a wall, and more than whoever wrote you, or meant you for.
I'm sorry pencil on plaster means more than it should to me.
So much.
Gosh at me. Teehee bracket cubed.
Labels: "I'm Sorry". (c)
