Remorse, the stalker of insipid motive for any who would suffer an undercurrent of rageful torrent, an inherent weakness born of ill willed fate as no man would with right conscious willingly choose to suffer such unholy levels of wrathful hate. Regret, the agent of painful recognition that exploits an emotional fracture and turns it a fatal form of flaw in severity and hurt, these for the stricken with loathing flames a sure fire way to self destructively incinerate.
For those born free of corruptions tainted touch, as free as any mind may be given the unavoidable fact we all have a flaw inbuilt, remorse and regret are offered honestly as a grateful window to look back, learn what evils to avoid in terms of remaining in good character, a method by which those souls positively seek to redeem and repent.
Some people are sewn into this world with a rotten thread to spectacularly ruin the potential of the rest, a tangled mesh to weave through life with as much control over their intrinsic beast as a scorpion has over its instinct to sting. That window twists frame and glass into an all consuming splintered and smashed portal to every past event that condemns, destroys and ceremonially damns that rare element called hope.
What use is it for a hurricane to look back on its fateful path of cruel destruction, a reaper of souls on the jagged scars of emotional pain it causes, when such forces are merely doing the job for which they are designed. A rage so deep and fundamental to the very warped fibre of a person’s collective self, as much their choice as the scorpion to be born of venom that debilitates all around it with it’s sting.
So in conclusion of this blessed wisdom, depressive recounting of storm torn and emblazoned logic, etched by fiery hand into the bedrock stone of an emotionless figure of life:
“If the path behind is only filled with the mines of emotional discontent, the daggers of past victims, innocent or not; Do not look back for fear the ghosts will not remain mere haunting, but become the reflections of our lesser selves in forms to burn our mortal shells, such is the nature of harm reaped by my regret”