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.