Guilt

Why must I remember?

Your face overpowering my thoughts, a strict routine of hopeful invisibility followed by your inevitable appearance. Like clockwork, a whirlwind of litter with my guilt boldly mixed in taunting me. My pain has rhythm.

What do I do? I cannot undo the past, yet you won’t leave me alone. One drink down, and you run off. Two glasses down, and there you are. You must haunt some other soul, a drunken chat with a fragile man in the kitchen. Just as he looks like he can’t take anymore, is that when you visit me? Keep us guarded or tease us with dementia? Regardless, your presence is not the problem. It is the gift that accompanies you.

You give me a mirror. My reflection does not age- devolution. Culpubability constricting my progression, shrinking my resolve. It is my lack of concentration, failing the same assignments over and over again. I see my actions, what they do to people, how they squirm in their chairs, how my eyes mischaracterise my intent, yet nothing changes.

The common denominator is a hard thing to be. The difficulty lies in the uncomfortable acceptance of the fact that you are the problem. Guilt stagnates on the common denominator, boils appear on their legs. You begin to lose track of the self-inflicted wounds. Three may look like five, five like seven. Did I do that? I mean, you have done all these other things, all these very similar and selfish acts. Doesn’t take much for the paranoia to perch, a shark in bloody water. My mind blaming me for my nightmares. Rejection from a world you reject still burns. A world that rightfully punishes you, yet, rehabilitation is ignored. It isn’t an option for you, why? Why does the guilt, the negative portrait, not spark change?

Perhaps, the common denominator is too comfortable in the uncomfortabality. Experienced in inflicting pain, the faux righteousness is unfortunately well disguised. The costume has holes, but the common denominator wants to believe the imposter. It needs to be ripped. Layed bare for all to see- exposed. No stitch left to save. A reluctant and forced adherence to the evidence, the demanding knowledge of the essential change. An uphill battle or a change of route.

A solemn life awaits the common denominator; time is running out. The boils disable their legs; it is hard to catch up to a self-imposed retreat, especially on unmerited stilts. Their reflection begins to blind and firmly roots itself in their psyche.

This is you.

Cheers