Guilt

I’m drowning in guilt. I figured if mistakes weren’t made, guilt wouldn’t hurt. Who would’ve thought that drowning yourself in platitudes was a quick bandaid? Shit such as ‘you did wrong, but it’s a lesson’ or ‘if I were in your shoes, I would’ve done the same’.

Me, you, them, us. We look for an easy fix. We afraid to face our own fear. But if logic would play a role, overcoming your fear is pretty moronic. 

I fear death. Does that mean I should die?

I fear height. Does that mean I should jump off the cliff?

I fear getting dumped. Does that mean I should break someone’s heart?

I fear commitment. Does that mean I should be an ass?

These questions are just like pi. 22 divided by 7. A number so unique there’s no repetition nor pattern. 

It’s never ending. So does our guilt. So what do you do when the guilts are so insurmountable and out of control?

You run? Or you just forget?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Revisiting Shay

It was an odd day. Maybe it was because the clouds looked different or because I wore mismatched socks. I’m not really sure. I stood in front of Shay, the room smelling slightly of old books and maybe a bit of lemon cleaner. Shay had a beard that seemed like it hadn’t been brushed for days, but it made him look interesting, not messy. It reminded me of the scruffy dog I once saw at the park. We were supposed to chat about usual things, maybe the new movie or the book I was reading. But my mouth had its own plan. I told Shay the biggest secret I had, the one that had been piling up inside me like lego bricks. The secret about how I felt about him. He looked surprised, like when someone gives you a present on a day that’s not your birthday. For a really long time, he just stood there. The old clock on the wall kept ticking, and a bird outside the window was singing, probably to another bird. Then, Shay finally talked. “You know, I always thought secrets were like lost socks. They’re hidd
Read more

Sleep Deprivation Equals To Apple Pie

Image
It crosses my mind (at this wee hour), that when you can't get your eyes close and adrift in a good night dream, images of recipes and good foods always come uninvited. I browsed a website and dang over there were these gorgeous blueberry pie and a chicken pot roast and lemon-lime danishes and the list is further miles ahead. I can't sleep. But my brain is entirely exhausted. I worked until 6 in the morning yesterday and once I opened up my eyes exactly at 12.48 pm today (Tuesday), there were 18 missed calls from the Company. That is not the point. My point is, I can't sleep. And when I did a little rummaging just now in my fridge, I found a bag of apples, a few kiwis, gazilions of portobelo mushrooms, and a box of butthead lettuce. A thorough thinking has been done, and I am planning to mash up all the apples and make some pies. Finding blueberries here, is like digging for a little japalenos in a bunch of cili melaka. They don't have blueberries, but they have a rack
Read more

Someplace Else

You make me happy, do you know that? How so? Your existence, your breath, your caramel hair against the morning sun, your porcelain skin against mine, your squinty eyes when you're being naughty, the way your fingers slowly crawl on my face.  What else? Your smile. Your perfect teeth. Your little dance in the kitchen. The way you stand. The way you walk. Little silly things you say when you have your first coffee of the day.  You make me happy too. How so? You. You by being you. You make me happy. 
Read more