Am I sick, a demented, a guilt-ridden psychopath?
What am I.
There are moments in this life, this long, arduous life, when I am struck by a tragic truth: I have fucked over many, many, many people. In fact, I have displayed no notable skill in this life greater than that I have demonstrated with my uncanny ability to fuck over people.
I have torn, destroyed, damaged, wrought misery, while ambling along stupidly and blithely through this life’s path of my own design. I have destroyed monuments of humanity and razed towers of virtue. For what?
For a momentary haze of authority, of numbness, of selfish release.
I sit back, sadly, wracked, and guilt suffuses this tired frame and the realization that fucking over is an absolute spiritual waste, an elemental squandering of humanity. What was I thinking? Is this why we seek forgiveness? To lend some fleeting value to our lost humanity for man’s greatest weight, harshest burden, is the absence of progress and positive psychic motion.
I fucked over those who mattered the most. A most spiteful man.