Time goes by, blunting life’s edges, giving even our gravest errors an aura of necessity, and in the end all that remains is a sense of regret for what we didn’t- or couldn't- do.

So I wish I’d been stronger, braver and franker; I wish I’d given you more, and demanded more, too; I wish I’d shown my feelings instead of vaguely mentioning them in self-pitiful texts; I wish I’d expressed my anger, however undeserved, instead of letting it go stale before turning to sorrow, for all would be over now, anyway. Humiliation can only last that long, whilst inaction comes back to haunt us.

But there’s no point dwelling in the realm of unfinished memories. I’ve changed; I’m who I used to be. I still feed on sunshine and idealized encounters; I still can’t decide whether living is a tragedy or the greatest adventure; I still seek out the company of people, then violently push them away to become engrossed in my constraining, explosive love-affair with solitude.

The future is like a distorting mirror: it shows nothing more than a disfigured image of my expectations. And the past is like a delicate spider’s web, in which I am forever caught.