A Letter to Guilt

Dear Guilt,

           Leaving in a year puts you on my mind constantly. How could someone who has such amazing parents and a beautiful sister want, no NEED, to leave so bad? Guilt, you are my downfall. How I wish I could make you go away. Not as if you left, but as if you were never here in the first place.

            But lets face it, you’re more than likely here to stay. You’ll be here to call me out on everything I doubt.

            Guilt, you and I both know I’ve made some terrible choices. I got addicted to drugs, I’ve abused people, I’ve lied, stolen, and cheated. And I feel you, Guilt, not for doing these things, but for the absence of the regret there. I should be regretting getting on drugs, but I don’t. And I feel guilty, I feel inconsolable. And I should.

            Back to where I first started: why would I need to leave? The memories. The knowing. As for the memories, I don’t want to sit in the city where I remember when I first realized I was fucked up. Where I first fell into an everlasting overwhelming feeling of doom. I don’t want to remember the psych ward stays. Most importantly, I don’t want to remember who I was. I want to remember myself as Saint. That’s who I am. And then there is the knowing. I think that this would be safe to say the hardest part, because along with the memories I know what’s going to happen, I’m going to give into addiction, into madness.

                                   (I never wanted to be sober!)

          I also know who I want to be, and I cant be that here. Not with all these people. I need to start over.

                                                  Guilty…

          But there is no one to blame for this but me, although most of the time I wish there was someone to blame it on. I feel that itd be so much easier to throw all my anger at someone. For this wanting to blame someone else, I do not feel guilty, and for not feeling guilty when I should, I’m guilty.

                      (Guilt, as you see, you come into play everywhere.)

          I must say, as I’m sure you know, all I really want right now is to not be sober. I want feed my addiction, to feel the comfort of being high, I don’t feel so alone then. Sadly, I’ve been writing to you sober. If this letter would have been more   entertaining, more desperate, more tangible, more ANYTHING, if I was high, I will never know. And I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. That may seem so small to everyone else in the universe but right now it feels like everything to me.

            I don’t have much, mentally, but a mind that never seems to take a rest. If only it was working on useful things instead of pondering the past. But this where I am. Predestined fate or free will, this is where I fucking am. And as much as I feel you, Guilt, I have to keep going on with life, in someway or another, until I’m at the end (as soon or far as that may be). Now I feel this is a perfectly good spot (as any) to end this letter to you. With that being said, all I have to say now is:

For a madman as myself, serenity will only come when I’ve come to terms with the madness. In that, I will find home.

                                                   My regards,