Fallen Egret’s Regrets

I started thinking of this at first as a simple light response to the latest note by Seth and Allison’s latest entry. It grew from there as I self reflected in my copious backstage time during rehearsals and had an interesting experience/story. Since I write by talking in my head, or aloud if nobody’s around, I feel this is a bit better with the actual voice, especially the ending. I’ll record maybe Wednesday when I’m alone. I really should start carrying around a recorder with me everywhere since I think/sing a poem almost every time I’m walking around and so many with potential are lost. Sorry it’s so long, it began as a quick response but grew and I have problems stopping,cutting myself.

What do I regret? What don’t I regret? I don’t know the answer to your questions, I can’t help you my friend. Do I regret that though? Not really, after all I can’t answer my own questions, it’d be ridiculous for me to assume I could help someone else before myself.

I was raised on my knees in a church, my nose clasped between Gospels. Perhaps that’s why it’s so sensitive! Pathetic attempt met with resistance and summarily slaughtered like the good Samaritan it is. I know more about the bible than I am comfortable sharing with most of my friends. I was never really interested in the knowledge I had until I became an agnostic, the words were mumbled and my pronunciation,annunciation was filled with loathsome denial and tinged with remorse. I was angry for understanding I did not understand what I was saying, I did not believe. Anger at my parents for forcing their beliefs upon me, angry at myself for speaking the words I had never felt, even angry because there was no reason to believe. Hope?
Hope is weak,unbreakable.

It’s the nature of the universe to fucking piss me off.

Escape? I know how to escape, I know many ways to escape and exactly how easy it would be, especially for me, but the desire, conviction is lacking. I don’t succumb to temptation, perhaps it’s an obscenely high tolerance rendered unto me from my past life, perhaps it’s the intense and obsessive self control I constantly exert to deceive,lie to laugh, but never cry. Perhaps it’s the paranoia of losing control, of not directing my own wooden joints. The problem comes at the edge, verge of the pit though. It feels good and you, i want to give in. Put,weigh myself down, drench,soak myself up, do what was right by going left, do what was wrong by going right.

I regret my own mutilation,silence. I regret that two days ago I listened to a young woman explaining why she can’t name a rat Jessica, because during this year’s summer her boyfriend’s girlfriend died, thrown from the backseat of an open backed jeep as it rolled, leading to the hospital with a coma for mass head and body trauma, leading to her boyfriend being there for her as she slipped away and they unplugged the machines, leading to him losing his girlfriend of two years at the ages of 14 and 15,leading to him refusing to talk about it,get therapy but write about it, leading to everyone around gasping in revulsion,horror throughout the entire ordeal of the tale. And what else? sympathy from everyone. except me. All I could do was try emulating but I have no idea how! So I turned away trying to hide the near smile.  All I could think is at least he writes about what haunts him.

I regret my own mutilation,silence. I regret inflicting silence upon myself by inflicting it upon those I love, those I loved, those I wish I loved and even those I thought I loved. Nothing of any merit escapes this mouth, I refuse help. But it’s not because I think I don’t need it, I just don’t ask, I refuse to ask. My stubbornness,obsessiveness,fixation,refusal,denial is vile,poison eating away at the insides where I hide them for safekeeping,holding an inner boy,son. The walls are crumbling, brought down by three darts from the conquerors or from myself fighting to survive. I can’t see anymore, but that’s just me Many sore-
Zuh wrought,brought about by my investigation.

Where the floor touches the door there’s a crack, no connection. It doesn’t touch! Why won’t it touch? Fuck it, what’s been up man? Where the gasp meets the scream, meets the cry meets the lie. Where the muscle meets bone only to be severed in a moment of agony as nerves explode in their dying convulsions. Without feeling are you even alive anymore?

Do I live in this fortress now? Am I to be imprisoned now? Is it against my will? Three questions and three answers. It’s not made of solitude, I am not he, it’s not regrets,  I am not he, it’s made of fear, am I me?

How can you take it all back? You can’t, like you said friend, but you can prevent yourself from repeating them, you can prevent yourself from going there again. Sometimes it’s simply an exertion of willpower, other times it’s because that one mistake haunts you, condemns you. Take it and like it you say? Once you force yourself to live with it you’ve made a choice, a choice that could have been a mistake. you can only make a choice if you have free will, you can only make a mistake if you have free will, you don’t have to be there again if you have free will, you can only make a choice if you still have control, you can only make a mistake if you still have control, you don’t have to be there if you still have control, you can only make a choice if you… you can only make a mistake if you… you don’t have to be there again if you… you can only make a… you can only make a…you don’t have to be there…should you ever have been there?