They say, as your hour draws near, you’ll regret the things you never did, you wish you had done.
But now, as I reach the end of my pier, I don’t.
I don’t regret not learning to scuba dive, rock climb, or bungee jump off a towering bridge.
I don’t regret not running a marathon, for fuck’s sake.
I don’t regret not traveling the world.
I don’t regret those drunken sexual orgies I never attended. Okay, well, maybe a little.
But I still have regrets. Hard regrets. Regrets for the things I did do. The people I’ve hurt, the animals I’ve killed, the ones I’ve caused harm.
My slights weigh heavy; it’s not a joke—the burden of my transgressions—the sins against the gods, goddesses, nature, and humanity.
So in this life or the next, I can ask no mercy, no compassion for that I’ve denied. I can only but bow my head and acquiesce to the atonement, regret the suffering I’ve caused.