Note to someone I knew.
It’s not me. It’s you.
Now I get it.
I actually do.
Why you’d rather let me walk away than to say you were sorry.
Because saying sorry doesn’t just mean you did something wrong, that you wronged me.
It means you may actually be wrong and that simply cannot be.
To admit that this may have been your fault, that you didn’t treat me like you should, means that maybe, not only were YOU wrong, but that therefore, I was right.
That I was right not to trust you and to ask you for more.
And if I, an atheist, a woman, could make up a moral code better than yours, it means that all you’ve been told, well, it’s quite possibly wrong.
Because how can you truly believe in something when some of the pieces don’t fit any more, when you realise it’s flawed.
We all know what happens when the foundations of the tower weaken.
Sooner or later, it falls.
It crumbles down until there’s nothing but broken pieces on the ground.
And no one wants their tower to fall.
Why would they?
When it has all been beautifully laid out for you.
When the path has been marked and all you have to do is follow.
No one wants to lose sight of that beautiful path and try to figure out which way to go next.
You tell me I’m wrong. I’m a sinner.
If the path is wrong, how come it’s been there for so long, you say, guiding so many people in the right direction.
I think it stayed because it’s easier that way.
Because that way you can tell yourself you’re right, and tell me I’m wrong.