Regret for things done

When you were young you felt so invincible and every act seemed to touch so lightly upon your soul that it mattered not what you did. You jolt awake now, sudden entry to adulthood and hardly recognise yourself for the scars and pox marks that disfigure your person. Every choice made so lightly advertised heavily in the lines on your face and the words in your permanent record. Your parents, teachers, social workers – they warned you this day would come, you laughed at them and proclaimed with bravado you did not care.

Truly, you did not care, but now older, weaker and more tired you turn back and glance at the corridor behind you. Thousands of doors, locked and barred, worlds and experiences you may never explore. Comforts and wonders denied to you.

You would rage against the makers of locks and the keepers of keys, but you did it yourself, the drab empty corridor before you, so few choices,  painstakingly handcrafted by your lack of foresight. It is what you deserve.

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