I swore I wouldn’t.
I told myself that there are some things that are absolute, however minor.
And yet here I stand, wondering if my convictions are but folly and foible, my word a rash statement of false bravado. The matter is so minor and yet I vacillate between self-loathing and desire, never quite stopping at indifference.
It isn’t a novel experience, the ground well-tread many times over. As well-intentioned as my words have been, it’s far from rare that my oaths turn into platitudes.
My promises now come with caveats, my plans with contingencies, and my bets with hedges, preferably with a nice two-level effect and a path in between that I can safely tiptoe without harm. I’m left remembering the guarantees that fell by the wayside: the changes in person, the trips planned and forgotten, the aid left ungiven in my feelings of helplessness. Each and every one comes with a set of excuses; ifs and buts layered over a solid foundation of failure.
My course of action has been set, another conviction thrown by the wayside. I’m hopeful that this time, my choice will bring happiness and joy instead of guilt and remorse. Even if I’m vindicated, I’m left with a nagging doubt.
What good is my word if I haven’t the means to follow through?