I make excuses for people who have wronged or aggrieved me, even when I don’t want to. I can make more excuses for someone in my mind than they can ever make for themselves. If they persist to commit a similar infraction repeatedly, I will truly come up with some elaborate justification pertaining to their individualized manifestation of affection and constancy to excuse them. Even if I don’t entirely believe it, I will assure myself it is only a natural and practical compromise. I don’t know why I compel myself to do this, even though it’s painful. I understand it may be an application of compassion, but I wish it didn’t feel like I’m running my own heart over a shredder.
How do I know it is a practice of compassion anyway? What if it is cowardice? What if it is entirely selfish, and I am only afraid that if I can’t divulge mercy and sympathy or transform aversion to kindness and love I will turn into a terrible, vile person? What if it is not a practice of compassion, but merely a defense mechanism—established to preserve a fraction of goodness in my soul so that I may continue to withstand myself? What if I am selectively forgiving, and therefore unjust? While we are afforded the luxury of choosing to love some over others on a personal level, what if this level affects the course of justice in universal transpiration, regardless of how private or intimate? Or is it utterly and absolutely arrogant to suppose my mercy could render such an effect?
Sometimes I wonder if I am capable of sincere love, and the thought frightens me.