Extraordinary accidents

I keep accidently hailing taxis when I stand on the side of the road. Perhaps there is some kind of road-crossing etiquette that I’m not aware of, perhaps it’s my super power. In any case, I don’t wave my arms at all, but they appear out of nowhere when I don’t need them, and I’m sure if I did stand on the side of the road waving my arms frantically, no one but the police would stop for me.

I also accidently used the last of the milk this evening. As I poured the last drop into my glass I heard a faint “We haven’t got much milk” drift towards me from the other room. I shrug and say I’ll go and buy some in the morning. I know in the morning, I’m going to grumble about the idiot who used the last of the milk.

But the worst of today’s accidents was the letter I accidently posted. Letters provide one with a false sense of anonymity. They enable you to expand on your usual repertoire of conversation. They are dangerous things. I wrote this letter to be read, so I could say the things I have never said and chase the festering words from the depths of my heart. It was a letter so raw with honesty it’s comparable to finding yourself naked in the middle of your class. And then you remember you walked there and took your clothes off voluntarily. Certainly this was some extraordinary accident.

Except of course it wasn’t accidental at all. But this doesn’t mean that when it fell through the envelope slot I didn’t faint metaphorically and bash the evil red box on the side, trying in vain to stick my hand down its throat and retrieve my lost baggage. I knew it was an accident, and that letter should not have been posted. But its finders-keepers and the letter doesn’t belong to me anymore.

I’m a history student, so if anyone should know the value of the past it’s me. And yet I run through hoops and jump hurdles to avoid old feelings I’d rather forget. The thing is that the past is the bricks upon which the present is laid, it doesn’t go away. And you can choose to tell your story however you like, but secrets are silent burdens that take on a life of their own. Sometimes I feel like I live in a world of bricks and mortar, within which I contain myself, for protection, for comfort. Tonight I blasted an honest hole in a wall of deceit. I’d be lying if I said that I’m not scared. I’d be lying if I said this was the last time I keep a secret.

But in a moment I felt both liberated and petrified. Such is life.

So if you want my advice, free yourself of that baggage, post that letter. Then move house so you don’t have to read the response!