This is a poem from the well of my deepest regrets.
It’s funny how, when we go through our lives we find ourselves faced with any number of choices every day. Sometimes those choices are mundane, and some present themselves as choices that require some thought. Occasionally we have less time than we thought and there is a finite amount of time between the moment that decision becomes available to us and the occasion of a consequence of indecision that is soul-destroying.
I’m not going to go into specifics here; I’m trying to escape the beach tonight. If you are a fan of Stephen King perhaps you know his story “Sorry, Right Number” and if you don’t you should. I remember my old phone numbers. I wish I could call myself and generate that one grain of sand.
Regret feels like a hot, serrated knife and like a pair of strangling hands – my own. I die a little death every day because there were two I did not try to save. Though every regret isn’t so powerful, they really hurt no less. When you think you should do something, please do.