I wonder, having touched this point, what the true harm of regret is. There are so many things in my life that I regret, but in truth, their sum effect on my life is nil. Apart from the vague memory resurfacing like detritus revealed by the low tide is a 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 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 transform the small dramas somehow into all-consuming set pieces, 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.