Why do mistakes hang around us so? As we move through acceptance and repentance to try and move onwards, why must they stay stuck to us, weighing our feet below the ground? If I have acknowledged my wrongs, accepted the punishment and endeavoured to change my life at a deeper level than has been addressed - not quibbled, or argued over nuance or process or semantics - though there is much to argue over, then have I not done enough to be left to remake my life?
I have faced my actions and do not claim to be perfect, though I do aim to understand myself better - to express who I am without denial or mask. I intend to go deeper and further than those who seek to judge but not solve; I hold myself to the truth of who I am, and who I wish to be; I do not think to dwell in Joyce's nightmare of history is a method of progress. Yet it is in this vortex people insist I stay.
But these are early morning thoughts; thoughts of darkness: of streets lit by the frown of street lights, of shadows and the meeting of the early and the late shift, of the fumbled latch, of the waking cough. Thoughts that echo down deserted pavements, and across empty roads where traffic lights amuse themselves with games of tic-tak-toe when no one is watching.
And now the morning begins to wash through the night, the blue begins to emerge, and the street lights wink away the secrets of the night. With each new morning my resiliance is renewed. I can stretch my foot further ahead, shake off the thoughts that drag me back - the opinions of those I find small, I can look forward to what the new day may bring. Shadows grow and fade with the rising light, pulling outward towards redemption, before being reclaimed by the darkness. But I will break free, find myself released, and stunned, and relieved by the responsibilty that I take for myself.
I have considered who I am and see there is more that I have achieved than failed, more that redeems than condems, more strength than weakness. I have repented, now I wish to be.