Supposition

I begin with the supposition that it is my job to comfort you.  Even when you prefer silence.  When angry, I aim to placate you.   Even if my mere presence or voice causes that very displeasure.

I admit I speak before I think.  And I think without forethought.

You ask why I haven't returned to that old place.  It's because I never left.  You say you don't understand me.  I propose you never tried.   Or listened.   My supposition is you settled and I reached.  And we are or were unequally yoked.  And I think you can do better.

As, can I.

I am a long way from where I was; a long way from where I need to be.  They say the first time is the hardest.  The most messy and clumsy.   My supposition is it only gets more challenging after that.  Innocence is short lived.  I infer that we become hardened.  Not like criminals.  More like, passive hostages.  There was never a ransom placed on me.  Or you.  There were no ultimatums.  There still aren't.

My supposition is we all self medicate.  We all bury ourselves into something and our identity becomes that very thing that buries us.  I propose we were all born with a void intended to be filled by God and His love.  My supposition is the further we stray from that intended solution, the more empty we feel.  The void deepens.  And we seek to fill it with self destructive means. 

I theorize we make idols out of those we believe are better than us but are those we believe we should be.  My supposition is we don't place people on pedestals.  We attempt to bring God down to our level.  We humanize He which is holy.

It makes blaming the very deity we claim to doubt easier to scrutinize.  A being that uses less that 1% of his brain matter cannot, even in his self righteous indignation, question an omnipotent being unless we place a human face on that being.

My supposition is that you were brought into my life for a reason.  Not to save me or the other way around.  Not even as some time consuming lesson to be learned.  I make no presumptions about us.

I propose that every cliche ever spoken were authored by men who died alone.  Their currency was false praise and ill labeled wisdom. 

My supposition is there is no rhyme or reason to anything.  Destiny or what the ancients called fatum is not some divine plan.  It is merely a collection of choices made my beings with free will. 

I end with the supposition that is my job to love you.  Even when you are unwilling or incapable of returning that very love.  When angry, I aim to placate you.

Even in my silence.