I’ve always basked in the surreal potency of regret – the ultimate pathology of the human being. To step inside the conclave of regret is to experience the primordial purity of emotions which, against other existential traumas, it cannot echo into eternity. It is the pristine demise of the human clarity which annihilates any hints of rehabilitation – it is the weight that drags down the being within a vertigo of self-inflicted and well-deserved sorrow. It is the cancer of normalcy, the distillation of the beautiful into the ugly, the amnestic stance of love and the eternal sorrow of the human consciousness.
If I had approached things differently, I would not be here to write this text.
One way to describe the concept of regret is to imagine walking barefoot onto the dancefloor and letting your waist be gently grabbed by the Devil. It is a feeling of unrelenting doom in front of a self-inflicted doom. In my short-lived and short-sighted life, I’ve danced with the horned-one quite a few times but nothing compares to the way we spun during the prom night, on the dancefloor. His boiling hard shells scraped my trembling skin as he was whispering atrocities in my ear. I was hooked, I couldn’t stop.
I did not pay much thoughts to his whispers. It was harsh to my ears and hollow in its consistency. It happened on a windy October afternoon as I was slowly pacing towards my specific destination. The surroundings seemed circular to me. The apartment blocks were circling around my footsteps alike the sunflower seeks the burning mist of the sun on those clear, hot, summery mornings. Their corners were dripping and their texture melting in front my eyes. My steps were steady, but my torso was trembling. I stopped and gazed forward, trying to gather insight into what was happening inside my head. Suddenly, I heard the whisper. It was such a simple task for the creator of the sentence, but it had such an enormous influence on me.
I am a deeply anxious person. My mind is a rotten field blessed with potent soil where various species and subspecies of insecurities create a contextually favorable environment for regretful thoughts to blossom. There are thoughts that should not be written and whispers that should not be uttered. However, we are genetically wired to suppress harmful memories but I strongly believe we should be forced to relieve the recollections for which we are to blame. Self-misery and warranted blame should be the purge tools of the despicable, of those who lost, are lost and they still wander.
And because I am such an anxious person, regret is the shadow of my thoughts, the humidity of a rainy day and the lightning strike to my thunder.
I regret many things. Sometimes I regret that I exist, to be burdened with everything that one can be burdened with. There are too many people suffering of ailments and maladies who deserve to put their thoughts onto paper and for people to read and bask in the raw, unadultared beauty of the written sorrow. I regret the infancy of my perspective and the juvenile way in which I approach the world and the people surrounding me. I regret the lack of arbitrariness and the power to change who I am and to develop my perspective in order not to alienate the people around me. I regret not doing things differently when I could.
Days go by with a rhythmic nonchalance which I absorb alike a sponge in a flowing river. I walk the melting sidewalks filled with fraudulent energy, basking in the uninterrupted light, until I reach my destination. When the sun has set and people are finally free once again, I walk back onto the heavy sidewalks, hanging with the weight of a thousand suns. I walk on top of them and I wish they would walk on top of me so that their soles would melt against my blazing skin. Thus, they would understand what I feel and, on my side, I would understand what they cannot feel. I used to hold a certain symbiosis with the city. I often used to write about the urban planes. That was before when I was still an outsider. Now I am completely captured and the symbiosis between two entities has reached completion. There is just one entity now and I am not it.
In the end, why do we write about regret? It seems that most of the meaningful combinations of the written word have been exhausted. It all goes back to the first roll of dice. We first had soil. Then we had water. Then life. Throughout the ages, the dissemination of art, either through the written word, or visual and aural manifestations, has been a gambling act of divine essence. Here we are, rightfully intertwined within the unencumbered turmoil that the 21st century is. We are gleefully staring onto graves which have been embellished and engraved with our humane sins. And we weep. We pour tears filled with sand and golden rubbish onto the simple wooden casket until the roundness of our Earth is achieved again. We are living an age of divinity and we shine our eyes onto its complete and utter glory. Filled with blood, our glasses shine into the scorching sun and we try to write but to no avail. What is there to write, I ask, when there is no one left to roll the dice for the Heavenly Art that we so dearly miss?
Thank you for reading.