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At what point does a confession constitute as a guilt trip? I thought I knew. I thought I knew a lot of things. I thought I knew where I was, what I was doing, where I was going... but all I know is where I've been. What I used to be. What I used to want. So where does the confession lie?
It must lie somewhere in the middle of that. Between near and far, between here and there, between yes and no. The guilt trip though is everywhere. Not quite here nor there. Not quite yes nor no. But everything, everywhere.
I give so much of myself to so many people, I drain myself dry every day making sure that others are alright. I have so little left for me. So little left to give and to feel that I am a puddle of nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Not a thing here nor there. Not any place or anywhere. I'm empty, devoid, and crushed beneath the weight of everything that I carry.
Atlas. The Greek God. The point of which your cranium rests on your spine. The broad expanse of everything that there is. From Australia to Quebec. An atlas of emotions, easy enough to read if you know what you're looking for. That's the confession, isn't it. The confession that nobody knows what they're looking for. So why be upset when the blind man tries to feel his way to victory, when the finish line is just to his left?
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