A_picture_is_worth_a_thousand_words

A hypocrite, I am.

This thought pieced together in my head one random morning like bar magnets rearranging themselves to form a line, each and every one falling in place, as my brain recalled fragments of memories.

I was lying in bed that weekend, trying to remember what I had dreamt about. I could recall bits and pieces from my dream: snippets, pictures, phrases that resonated with me. I remembered a friend of mine, frowning, asking me why I had said such a thing in my dream.
As I was in that weird state in between awake and asleep, I was not quite sure if the forgiving and innocent friend had actually gotten angry at me.

However, then that “memory” pieced itself together with my mother telling me that I spoke ill of her too often, that I criticize her for every mistake, not missing a single one. When she first told me that, I was in complete disagreement, but as I remembered that unexpected dream, random moments in which I was showing disdain to others flashed before my eyes, just the way it happens in movies.

Soon, the short remembrances finally seemed to settle, and things seemed to start making sense, or to be more accurate, my brain started to reach a conclusion. The fragmented remembrances of me almost shouting, frowning, clearly aggressive, my feelings of contempt clear in my posture made me ask myself: Had my mom been right all along? Was I really someone who uses the power of words in such a way? Did my strengths in the use of words lie here, in this, ugly, undesirable place?

Seldom but surely, yes; at times, I did exactly that.

This revelation was embarrassing, not only because I was admitting that I had been wrong, or because I was admitting to a wrongdoing, but also because I highly value being supportive of those around you, being careful about what you say because you can limit your very own friends with what you say.

To admit to the fact that I have been contradicting one of my most highly held values was hard. To grow to the person I want to be, I needed time, I told myself. One day, I would become that person, I would recognize the repercussions of my actions when I am performing the action itself. From that one, fuzzy morning, I have been attempting to carefully select the colors, the colors that I paint with, for they are the very colors that will, in the end, illustrate who I am.

 

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