The Harshness Of Perfection Upon Regret


The Harshness Of Perfection Upon Regret

I am relentless in the expectations of myself. Harsh you might say, the unwillingness to ever say anything is at my best. Always pushing my boundaries, but this desire, this need to always be striving for the next challenge, for this perfect picture of victory. Thwarts the happiness that lies with me.   

I fail in the honoring of my sacrifices, my accomplishments, which leaves me burdened, hollow in each victorious stride. It leaves me in a petrified state of being underachieved. That nothing I do is worthy of my praise nor others. I cloud myself in a vast empty hall, cold with breath, as I pull words from thin air. Hoping these will be the words that excite me.

The words that will drive me to the bliss I seek. But this anatomical rock of life agitates me of any wishes to sit still. To confine myself to the pleasures of my doings, too much is at hand. And time stands still for no man.

And I, regretful of my past, still hang myself by the throat. For the abandonment of a dream, for the mere sake of comfort. My body, at a constant dangle as my toes keep me above death, just enough to breathe.

My eyes hollow with bereavement, of my younger self. A shadow, a figure in the distant shade of what is no more. But I cannot bring it in me to slay this ego of mine, I cannot seem to lay it to rest. I struggle with the exhaustion to slit it from my mind. To name its grave and allow my anguished soul to progress.

But I hold dear to this memory. For many were left in abandonment of my paltry arrangement of my escape. But it was not only I who was afflicted in my desperate attempt to run from my lack credence. But many others who followed me, and those I followed.

There is little for me to do. As this colossus of regret sits atop my tongue like a diseased sore. Reminding with every cool winter and every heated summer that I fled with cowardice from my vision. And the stars, are but another reminder as they spell me out among themselves.

And my story, as of now, are the stars that exist beyond sight. The stars that fade before even time can grasp them. They are scars I fear to show, to display as antiques of my road. I am a corpse of my own ego and a shadow of my own heart.

When will I allow myself air, and open the door to this empty hall and greet myself in the embrace of the new, and of the angels? When will I place forgiveness upon this heavy soul? 
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