I wonder, having touched this point, what the true harm is of regret. There are so many things in my life that I regret but in truth, their true effect on my life is nil. The only thing that remains apart from the vague memory resurfacing like detritus revealed by the low tide is the pervasive sense of humiliation. That emotion - my failure to forgive myself, my failure to let go, my failure to ultimately move on from some meaningless act - what truth does that truly reveal? It only hurts.
I’m having trouble sleeping. It could be due to my aimless schedule, or my lingering apprehension about so many things, but I wonder how much of it is my own regret about this unfinished conversation. It’s eating at me. At this point, when all urgency has dissipated, what’s the point? Why make life harder? Why speak?
These words keep me up at night. From being unsaid. To you. I prolong their life through repetition. Bits and pieces mentioned, discussed pored over with friends. Like babies with boxes, I think we enlarge the small drama are somehow into all-consuming dramas, What truly exists though is the box - simple, plain, present to be acknowledged.
My thoughts matter. Your knowledge of them does not. I need to write the damn thing and leave it alone. I deserve to be free of this.