Regret

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.

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