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Introspection at its finest is the wallowing rumination of the soul. As I lay in my bed, unwillingly waiting for sleep to claim my consciousness during the reign of the moon, bleak galaxies of sheer nothingness formulate a null void behind closed eyelids. Thoughts of the past and unwitting and purposeful mistakes consume me, and the others who still exist in this world – not mine – fill my head, drowning me in a waterfall of guilt and anxiety beyond belief.

Tossing and turning in uncomfortable silence, I filter through suppressed memories with a grainy lens of regret. Scenes of petty screaming out of unhinged anger and hysterical sobbing through the throes of an impassionate breakdown flicker as I squirm. The suffering is a condemnation of a curse that I rightfully deserve with all of the wrongdoing I claim responsibility for. Forgiveness is not welcome here. For forever and a day, I will bear the consequences of my actions that is documented in the depths of a digital world.

I shall continue to live in the shadows, resigned to living a quiet life of mundane simplicity. My accomplishments will remain undiscovered, my capabilities to change the world silenced. Less I take the jump from the five-thousand-foot building of faith to believe in the acceptance of humanity that people can change, and mistakes are intended to be learned from, I will atone.

The thought crosses my mind of initiating communication with the wrong parties that have been at the end of my misdirected wrath. Time heals all wounds; but begging for forgiveness is selfish for the sake of my betterment. Would it be for the sake of theirs too?

Closure is a blessing that very few are permitted to have. The experience is desirable, but the lack of mature conversation is undeniable in its high probability. And so, I remain here, staring at a blank ceiling I cannot see in an insufferable blanket of the summer heat.

And it continues, over and over and over and over and over again.


written for day 19 of the literal challenge's like the prose event.

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