This is just something I was randomly inspired to write. So, don't expect too much, but please comment!
Regret? Sure, I feel regret sometimes. I’m only human, right? I suppose I feel it less than some other people, but it’s still there. Regret that I didn’t go somewhere, do something with my life. Regret that I spent those precious years of teenage wallowing away in my own misery and darkness, swathed in black, blocking out the rest of the world with a pair of headphones. But if you get to know me, you will realize that I shouldn’t regret these things, because I did go somewhere, and I did do something with my life. Just not the right thing.
There are explanations for everything, but I haven’t yet found the explanation for why I did what I did. Maybe it was because they looked so tempting, in my hand like that. Maybe it was because I couldn’t deal with overwhelming pressures around me. Maybe it was because there weren’t any pressures, and I’m still a liar.
They call it throwing your life away, but I am unsure of what to think of this. Sometimes I think that really, it’s just another part of living, and that there are things beyond this life. Most of the time, I fervently hope that there isn’t, because I doubt I would be able to take much more. Imagine if you just kept killing yourself, over and over, just to find yourself alive again, in the next world. You should at least be allowed some period of recovery, where you can just shut everything out and be gone for a while.
Or forever.
Then again, sometimes I really want a second chance, and want to live as someone who loves life, and doesn’t want to get rid of it.
They always wonder why murderers and thieves do what they do. In my opinion, their crimes are much worse than mine, but I am still paired with them in the same cell of misinterpretation. They were harming others, I only myself. Is this as much of a crime? Don’t I have the right to do what I want with myself?
And yet, there is nothing so cruel or horrible as taking away what humanity considers most precious. In my opinion, there are things far more precious than life, but it isn’t what I think that matters. Freedom of speech, freedom of thought, those are all lies, because when it comes down to it, you have to be like everyone else.
And yet, why does everyone try so desperately to be original, to be different? An inner struggle that perhaps everyone goes through, except those who are most comfortable with themselves. But what is comfort? Can you ever be truly comfortable living with yourself? Is there not always some guilt, regret, or shame that you are feeling? Or is that just me?
