And yet it’s always sorry. The air keeps an immutable record of our voices, and the shameful utterances cannot be taken back. Even the words that are necessary remain unsaid because the fear makes me choke. They will remain buried until they are torn out from within me, or they will eat me away inside until everything is sour and nothing is left. The beautiful things make me afraid also because the gently swaying fields are too golden, and then I know they are not real. It makes me lurch and I fall into the sky that is too blue, only to have the world fall on its head and find myself drowning in an endless river of ”sorry”s. The waters are no longer blue but a stormy gray, and they dash me against the unforgiving rocks until I need so badly to escape that I want to destroy things. Because it is always easier to destroy that which was lovingly created than to build something of worth, but even that is impossible because then I would see the ugliness inside me. So when life melts into a run-on sentence I run away instead, hoping desperately that someday I will break free even from the earth and fly so fast that everything becomes white, white…