There is nothing as exhausting as a continual repentance, an atonement for sins done in stupidly innocent times, in times that even if one should have known better one did not, in times that will never come back, relegated to forgotten histories that will never be relived.

Punished by a vivid and vain imagination – wondering what they are saying about you – into shame, guilt and silence, you retreat into a shell, that unfortunately, cannot insulate you from your conscience, from the zephyrs of knowing thought that the pain you have caused still lingers, stinging where once it was sweet.

But, you will get tired of being tired, and your shell will break, and you will flow out, no longer scared of your mistakes or afraid to show your scars where you cut yourself with unwitting, and sometimes cognizant, knife.

Agony has an ending. You can only whip yourself so much, your skin finite, peeled off to leave deadening gristle and bone. How much more of your self-hate can you take? How much more of you is left to make? Cease.



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