We know how it’s going to be in the end. There were some people I loved and many more I would love to ignore, but in the end of each day everyone disappears, all thoughts boil into one feeling so personal that it’s almost physically painful to describe: Guilt. It’s the sharpest straight line to a clean sense of existence that I can trace on the life-paths of everyone around me. The things I haven’t done, therefore the things that I am not.
There is no love or hate in guilt, there are no others; the World disappears to leave each single human alone with its own guilt. This is a feeling too proud of itself to adhere to any sidelines. You can tell me the things you feel guilty about and I’ll be thrown to my own little desert as soon as I take my eyes off you. Guilt has its own red carpet and chocolate cake to devour, and when it’s done it has you too.
I would like to meet an alien from whom we’ve all descend from and ask him how we’ll overcome these kind of thoughts. Guilt seems to have some grounds on evolution, because it behaves like the chaperon of the most intelligent planning and right decisions, yet each feeling derived out of guilt seems to only produce chaos. And why is it that guilt defines so profoundly our own sense of personal accomplishments. The things I haven’t done, therefore the things that I am not.
At the end of the day we push the guilt away with workarounds — tomorrow, next week, let it go — but guilt is a super virus, a chronic disease of the soul that can never be wiped away completely. That tapping inside slowly digging a whole, so deep, that when we finally get to it and do it, and smile, and step on that red carpet for a day…
I would tell you all about what comes after a guilt erased, but as soon as I’d finish there would be another one in its place.