“Do you regret it?”
A pulse, a question, ringing through the air, the preverbal bullet striking its target squarely centered. A breath. A pause. A feigned doubt. Regret? Of life, of pleasure, of seeking a cause? Of things said, of things unsaid, of conversation and touch?
“What is there to regret?” Comes the response. Held air escaping from parted lips, roving eyes, denied conviction.
Earth caught in the balance of a time-honored gravitational romance. The pale, the radiant. The blistering and numbed. Cosmic metaphors wrapped into a story each calls their own. The earth knows the greatness it beholds, it trembles in fear I mistake of my own. I am the originator. I am the creator. I am the destructor. I am the broken.
I am the healed. I am the deconstructed. I am the created. I am the partaker.
What is there to regret?
A lifetime. An inheritance. The heritage of me. Rip me to pieces, bite me to shreds. Let this be my testament, the last will I conceive, take whatever is left and rid myself of me.
Two lovers, past or current — distinction does not seem to matter, meet without a word, without a touch. Grappling with the space of choices. A fine balance between dancing with life and a rendezvous with death. Whisper quietly that no one will be the wiser, may the world never know.
Regret is an obnoxious word. Reminiscent of middle school playground taunts. Faces pushed into the dirt, shouts of being pushed first, cries of “do you regret it? do you regret it?”
Yes, regret is an obnoxious word. It’s the dichotomy between growth and a retreat into your past. Do you regret the things which have formed the essence of your being? Would the sun regret his pull on the moon? Or the moon her response to his bidding?
It is only when I doubt my future in which I doubt my past.
One can only make mistakes. Life is a conglomeration of mistakes and failures, sprinkled none too liberally with successes of obedience, of laying one's self down in submission before the mightier being. Regret denies the validity of forgiveness. It is a personal refusal of admission of grace.
Do I deny the healer the power of health and instead focus on the source of my former ailment? One easily sees the foolishness of such an undertaking. Why then focus on the past, when a glorious future is set before?
Gaze in wonder at the collision of time and space and the beauty of majesty brought to the living in my broken place.
There are words I wish I had never spoken, yet I see their place now. There are actions I wish I had never taken, yet I know now to never take them again. I look forward a soul made whole. Taking each footstep in a solid place, never turning to gaze into the salty past. A new creation, one of heavenly order, a mission laid out which is clear when sought.
What is there to regret?
Only the time I have spent dwelling in things of regret.