Scenes and the difference of times

It’s not my scene I told him.  

Rather, it was just not my time.

I wanted no one to worry or ask where I was.

So I faked disinterest in the activity.

Because, in all reality, it was my scene.

The people, the distractions, the interactions. MY scene indeed.

But not my time. I wanted to mourn and wallow in self pity.

Mourn over something I never even had.

What was his scene?

Would this be his scene?

And if I knew these answers would it motivate me to go?

And why bother myself with that trouble.

What good would it do anyway?

Stop! These thoughts consume. My fault.. All my fault…

My emotions, my attitude, me who I am.

How could I blame him?

And returning to the righteous thinking,

“OH! But who could love the beast?”

But not beastly in looks for once. But in the way one is.

Now she is me and I am she.

She may not always be beastly but it just gives me an excuse to change her.

The beast. She always seemed to care more despite the fact she was harsh.

The power, of course, is in the one who cares less.

Time after time this lesson is taught to me. Yet time after time, I have never  gotten her to learn.

So Yes, dear friend. I told you it was not my scene but I lied.

For you see, it is mine. It’s just not my time.

And I promise, there is a difference.