I do this thing where I regret these stupid little incidents because I have this buzzing. ever-present little gnat poking at my brain all the fucking time, droning on and on: “You’re only living this life one time, so make it good.” I yearn for tiny, perfect moments — because I don’t need a huge goddamn victory at the end of every day or even the promise of a happily ever after: I just want to cultivate small, photographically contained moments of brilliance and pure happiness or something. So I paralyze myself for hours before I go to sleep, replaying conversations in my head and editing. I have a creepy sonic memory and I’ll remember verbatim and just want to scratch myself. I’m working on it. Being a perfectionist in a terribly imperfect world is difficult.
And the larger regrets? I do, I kick myself about chances missed and not having tried harder for things and people or whatever. I cut a lot of people out and I wonder if these are the right things, especially because all these other people in my life have died or are dying and there’s no fucking time to fuck around with your heart and you should be generous and reckless with your love because who fucking cares if it doesn’t work out if you don’t even try? But you have to count self-preservation as one of your big claims to strength, and so I think about the friendships I cast aside years ago and wonder. I do. But, conversely, I have these symphonic moments of self-actualization and conviction and thrillingly feel like everything — EVERYTHING! — is working out exactly how it ought to.
But “ought to” is bullshit, too.
I regret a lot.
I regret not being closer to my mother. I know it’s too late. That’s the big one.
I sometimes regret my steeliness and pride and vicious snarl of an attitude…but then again, I don’t fucking regret that at all.
COME AT ME, WORLD