Guilt is a peculiar
creature. At times, it’s an ever-present bedfellow. It expands gradually,
scooting you farther and farther to the edge. You have that moment in which you
teeter there—knowing you are destined to fall, even more that you deserve to
fall—but in that moment, you just focus the weightless serenity of imbalance
(willfully ignoring the impending crash).
Other
times, it comes out of nowhere. You scurry from task to task, the rush and
automation of every monotonous day, heedless of it crouching in the corner. Then,
one image. One word. And—SLAM. It hits you like a brick. Like a brick-filled
sack of clichés. It sucks the air out of your lungs with its tired familiarity. Your heartbeat surges until your head whirls
with the old thoughts. You are left . . . gasping. Off balance.
Sometimes,
its aftertaste lingers. It colors your face and body movements as you play the
role of yourself for the remainder of the day.
At least one notices but remains silent. Other times, it dissipates
quickly—leaving you to wonder if it was there at all.
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