Coffee & Writing

An argument can be a lot like a sentence with a soft and sweet, “I am,” being the equivalent of “Please apologize for borrowing my shoes without my permission.” The shoe-borrower apologizes and the friendship goes on as normal, but a chip of trust still needs to be rebuilt, but that’s normal.

Then, you have the volcano of arguments which feels like you were dropped in the middle of something with boxing gloves on and you find yourself crouching in a defensive position.

No matter how rational you think you are being, the other party thinks they are being just as rational, when, in fact, neither party are. An agrument can get so heated that everyone becomes unrecognizable; it feels so bad, that when all is said and done you think only Satan himself could have had a hand in it.

I had one of these volcano arguments and lost people I loved. I don’t know how it started, I’m not exactly sure why it started. Those things don’t matter anymore. Whatever this argument was it happened and none of the people in the argument looked like themselves. We had all become monsters. Some of it was filled with lies, or perhaps it was just misremembering, I don’t know. I don’t care anymore.

Trust will most lkely never be regained. When speaking will occur again will probably only be at, hopefully, far away funerals.

My advice, if you start to see a volcano on the horizon, stop it before it starts.

Miriam Kavanagh