Infinite Regret

There are so many events that stain the soul,

That create a mental prison of infinite pain and remorse, a chasm in my mind deeper than Mariana’s trench.

How does one undo their own terrified actions wrought with the confusion of age and inappropriate exposure?

How does one reconcile all the feelings of self hatred for things they don’t understand and didn’t.

How do you live with yourself even though you attempt to define your moral compass with the utmost ethos possible.

How do you live with yourself?

How do you ever come to accept yourself as a person with any value whatsoever with a past that burns like a million fire ants all biting simultaneously. That sting when you breathe, that cannot be fixed by self harm,

That drives you to take your life because if ever you could hurt anyone you don’t deserve to live. Where you refuse to waste others money on your own confinement because taxation could be better spent on roads, on medication for the poor. How could one ever be so fucking selfish that they deserve the world taking care of them if they are so corrupt they don’t deserve the automatic rhythm of their own heart beat.

When the depths of hell have buried them into ones mind, it feels as though light is impossible. It feels as though the regret is an undertow drowning you, consuming you, pushing you to take your own life not for fear of punishment but rather because it becomes a preponderance of how one can want to dedicate their existence to helping others and yet have ever possibly hurt anyone. How any pain ever can never be let go of through a myriad of examinations of conscience. To preserve such duality is insanity.

To preserve such contradiction is madness.

You wait and wallow in the ashes,

You sit waiting and begging G-D every day to strike you down by lightning for you feel you are unworthy of even his love.

It is as if my insides and memories are leperous boils that fuck up all that you care about. And you’d gladly drink bleach, or hemlock or arsenic because you’d find it completely unkind to waste the world’s time. How can you live when you feel like even your own shadow hates you too.

So long ago there was a moment of perfection as the mind evolved to a point of defining morality. And you seek every day of your life to be a protector, a savior, a hero. To slay the demons that torment your mind every waking second and fill each breath with an abundance of fiberglass, and slowly you suffocate. And slowly you feel yourself dying tormented by things you can’t change, and regrets you can’t fix. And you stand on the ledge and you calculate your terminal velocity and absolute maxima force and try to decide from that ledge if you can promise it ends.

That it is instant. That your suffering lasts a femtasecond.

That the last time you were ever to relive another horror that no matter how long you live you can never forgive or forget or move forth from your past.

You wish

you wish you had the fucking balls to jump.

You wish you had the fucking bravery required to end it all. And then you think about the people it would hurt.

Those you care most about in the world and you remember the 7th circle of hell is full of suicides. And for a moment your antipathy of self peaks at zenith.

And you feel so dead inside that the jump would be redundant. And you cry. Because it feels there’s nothing left on earth to console your sadness. That a doctors pill is a bandaid on a broken spinal cord. And you ask yourself why couldn’t you have been smart enough to know better. Why couldn’t you have just understood and known. And it makes you hate yourself a million times more for being so fucking socially retarded. And you just want it to be over. You beg G-D. You pray. You pray for others. You feel so broken that you just want the world to end your life for you. That you would lie down gladly like they did at Babi Yar. And accept the bullet to the head.

7th Circle, wood cut, based on Dante’s inferno