Regrets are such funny things. I like to think of them as little monsters whose mere existence is a manifestation of our past decisions. “Don’t cry over spilt milk” is a common enough saying, urging us to let go of the past, as what’s done cannot be reversed. It’s funny how some people think that spilt milk can be so easily let go of.

I have a few of these monsters living in my heart. Some of them so old that they’re comatose, and some young ones who are still tearing at raw flesh. It’s the young ones that hurt me the most. So youthful and full of energy, the damage they do comes in short bursts, but the white agony that they dish out, ha, those wounds take a long time to heal.

As mentioned, these monsters aren’t immortal, even they succumb to the test of time. As they grow older they become weaker, and the wounds that they inflicted during their glory days, those have long healed over too. What was once red and tender flesh is now black and hard as stone, as most scars are.

This cycle repeats itself, until one day where these little monsters can no longer find anymore raw flesh, only lifeless scar tissue. Hopefully that time will never come; who wants a life with many regrets anyway; but if it were to happen, I would long have become immune to regrets. Like a turtle within its shell, no part of me would be susceptible to damage ever again. No more pain, no more feelings, no more emotions vulnerable to these damned little monsters.