Fallen

Remorse either forms you into entirety or shatters you to the point of no repair. Like when you forget about your pet while you are on a vacation; when you lose an entire week of friendship to a silly quarrel; or when you realize that you had loved someone wrongly after they have moved on. When you lament over details of helplessness, when the deed cannot be undone or the soul cannot be redeemed, leaving you with the ashes of regret. When the past follows your present and your sins befall your repentance. It is not easy to open your fist and let go off that sticky air of disappointment you caused. Like a mother who secretly knows she did not do it well, like a doctor who carries the burden of a mistake or a scientist who stole. The universe twists itself around your rue and submerges you into a vast ocean of soul-ache, untreated by the sorrow you feel, unrelieved by the weight you carry. No words (spoken or unspoken) or touch (favoured or commanded) will be consecrating.

The demon manufactured by your misgiving refuses to face down. You are rendered irreproachable for you only have yourself to blame. When you stand 2 inches from the edge and want to take that leap into resurrection; what keeps you is the fear that something anti-gravitational will pull u back upwards and bring you back to the point of guilt. Like an endless purgatory, the pain will be yours, bespoke for you, to fit your conscience permanently. Try as you may to wash the fabric of your tainted soul but the stain remains, reminding you of what you could have done better. Of how you could have made it right, like a string that remains plucked and never stops trembling. You could have loved better, that you could have tried harder. But when you think your compunction has turned into a plague on the ship of your soul, it will help to remember that failure can be validating. That a misstep can be imparting. And it is comforting to know that there is an entire galaxy that lies between an ‘if’ and a ‘then’, studded with the stars of possibilities, some shining, some dwindling. An effort is the mother of a deed and is thus superior to it.

illustrative art – “Remorse”, 2005, acrylic, oil pencil, raw pigment and cold wax on paper

artiste – Matt Pipes

art url - here