It is written for those whom I must answer to, but let it be known that it be not written to them.Words flow to aid those wounded, but like an idled ambulance, blaring uselessly by, my words too, fail to serve a meaning. I look at myself and think, how naive to expect- but perhaps naivety is not the issue, but insensitivity. If foolishness was the culprit, I could pity myself to death. To think, that I believed that my words could mend, is in itself an open curtain on my character. To think that after what was done was done, I would still believe in my ability to merely relinquish the disaster. I pity myself.

I, a person of excuses, so proud to be quick, so quick to defend. But I seldom remember that the walls that here have fallen are not of mine, but theirs. I raise my excuses as a counter to face a presumed attacked; too slow to remember, to proud to realize, it was I who was the attacker.

She whom I met under unpredictable circumstances. It would be my pride that would lead me once again to my downfall, she in suffering. Though I apologize to her, I myself would not spare for mercy once again. Doing so has been for too often, too painful.

I write not to her, but for her, to myself. You, the me who has little but the pride he cowers behind. You, I pity you. I pity myself.