There's something soothing about monotony. The sound of raindrops cascading over the roof of an old SUV on a night ride. The whirl of a teetering fan, barely hanging on after years of use. The crisp sound of turning pages in a library, filled with low murmurs and the antiquated solace of stories spanning thousands of years. Every story, a monotone retelling of stirring adventures that at that moment may have induced such breathless glee or despair, but that now remain as simple letters on a page. The waterfall of raindrops, that dusty, half-functional fan, and the millions of stories shared by letter and word, comfort us with the tale of predictability. They also share their own unpredictability, which we inherit in our stories of the present. Our stories are monotone, yet unpredictable. Simple, yet complex as we navigate the fluster and wane of others' tides. Our beaches are saddled with their imprints and our sand gets sucked into their own.

Maybe that's why. My story has felt so utterly steady that I forgot about some of the events that have shaped me as a person. Caught in our predictable lives, we hesitate in the face of action. Life-changing decisions that we know are important, but that we stumble over nonetheless. Maybe that's why the sands of those who marred my beaches have stayed trapped by the multitude of what makes me, me. By not releasing those tiny stains back to where they came from, or by not accepting them into our own speckled colour, they are left to litter and scar. 

Sometime it's hard to accept that we hold onto our past. We know it affects us and we know that it must be fixed, but to accept it. Embrace the effect it's had on us and understand that that won't go away. That's the part that prevents us from growth.

We are little islands, filled with predators and prey, life and death, and hope. But we drift and try to stay anchored in a big, old world that has seen many of us come and go. But our tales are still important, our struggles still real, and our growth a must if we want our lives to matter more than just a speck on the never ceasing patter of time . Not for others, but for ourselves and what we decide, who we decide, we want to be.

I like to think that I'm a good person. Not a nice person, but good nonetheless. Often, I get recognized for this. But not many know of the other side of me that whispers the opposite. Of the side, then unmarred by the world, tainted by the sight of spilled booze and the smell of cheap beer in someone's breath. Tainted by flashbacks of frantic screams and thrown bodies. Of small whimpers and roaring, anguishing cries of sadness. Of whispers promising better times and new days, and whispers of apologies—of resignation and resentment. Then the side of me, scarred by the world, but still fighting to be better in spite of it. The side that regardless got reminded of its own humanity and fallibility. 

Sometimes we underestimate the impact of our actions and we hurt as we have been hurt. And in those timers, maybe we hurt as we have seen others hurt. 

Maybe this is why I understand that I'm not a good person. Not yet, anyways. And I want to change. I want to show that I'm better than what I came from. Not because I don't accept it for what it made me, but for what it still teaches me to this very moment. 

The sound of a bang outside my apartment window tears me away from my writing, disrupting the peace brought by the clattering raindrops. All of the small, flittering letters I've written so far, jumbled in a heap of metaphoric ponderings, lay below me. A second bang sounds. A little closer this time. A sigh escapes my lips as I murmur, disgruntled. It's time. Time to wake up and accept myself for who I am and what I've done and what I will do. A third bang roars in my ears as the window shatters, showering my bed with little shards of glass. Maybe this time I will do better.