Write Something Every Day

"Well, gimme something to write about." I'm fumbling with this cordless keyboard, sitting Indian style at the side of the bed, your right leg propping my terrible posture easily.

"Write about?"

"Yea... you know... I'm writing." I try to take this order thing seriously. Sometimes.

"Regret."

"Mm," I say, knowingly. Our short courtship was birthed in shadow.

Or Light.

I suppose that riddle depends on the asker.

I say, "I don't have many of those," and wonder immediately if that is true. And I know you are not asking me to write a list of sins to lay at the discretion of the internet gods for absolution, but there, I find the subject matter.

Those quick thoughts that traipse in and out and through. They led me to, 'Why do you suppose the mere mention of the word brings me to guilt, and sin?'

You are sleeping. I never give you enough time for rest.

(This is not my confessional.)

Regret.

It makes me ponder right versus wrong. Good versus evil. That thin, subjective line. It leads me back to my childhood understanding of the universe and through a myriad of choices leading me through the not-so-straight-and-narrow to needless confession and fear and, the long way about, to something that feels as awful as freedom.

You learned, like I did, that freedom was not in choice, but in absolutes; that true freedom lied in allegiance and boxes and rules.

I'm not sure if the quote is in the book, but the in the movie, The Mists of Avalon, one of the characters (it's been so long... I'm sure I could Google it, but it's 2:16 AM and my thoughts are like gusts of wind...) says, speaking of a nunnery, "suffering brings women to God."

The phrase always seemed to resonate. In it's own way, my suffering had been a badge. It became a banner blazing Chuck Palahniuk quotes that I scribed on the laundry-room walls of the ghetto in the Concrete Jungle.

"Self- improvement is masturbation."

However self-inflicted, my bleeding heart and ego were then paraded about with my abused vocal cords like the "answers" were simple. I had them all, and was all too willing to share them.

I never bothered with the questions.

Another quote resonates with the word. A lyric. "Please don't barrage me with the questions to all those ugly answers. My ego's like my stomach. It keeps shitting what I feed it."

The focus on freedom to choose "right" only beckons back to the remorse, the fear that led to the need for forgiveness... and then it says, "You will never be good enough. Good news, though. Someone made a payment on your behalf."

It's snowing here. Or was. But the winter breath is what saying those words (in not so many words, of course) feels like. When I last wrote so "candidly" it was like frozen air in my lungs as though the words on the screen were turning summer to winter before it's time and all through my mouth.

For that, I have regret.

I haven't read it in some time, and though I feel the same still, I will not remove it. There are many things in the past I have regretted and absolved within myself. The badges and scars are not so much testament anymore as much as they are story but I wear them without pride or boasting or loathing. If those words brought someone peace even for a moment, then I cannot truly say I feel remorse for them. Our beings find the experiences they must have, because they must.

The "witching hour" is close and I am tired and my fingers smell of smoke like they do when I am caught up in writing. I suppose that could be another thing I regret: smoking again after more than two years, but I will pine the relapse another time. Your snores make the pillow inviting, and perhaps I have poured out enough thought to sleep quickly.