Madness of Regret

A force of nature, free, untamed, unkind.

And yet I yearn, though I know it's in vain,

To dance with your chaos, to revel in your rain.

Held by what I can't possess—but still call my heart.

For in the depths of your embrace, I find my truth: 

That love is not possession, but the courage to lose. 

These verses—these haunting verses—they dictate me, pulling strings I cannot see, weaving patterns I dare not unravel. Yet, they never truly own me. A mask of dictation cloaks my truth, a façade I wear willingly, though beneath it lie countless other masks—unmasked, unseen, unknown. Each verse, every rhyme, reflects only fragments, the tiniest slivers of a person already too small to matter. Or so I thought.

Every verse, every whispered cadence, chipped away at that smallness, adding to it instead of subtracting, making me feel larger, a little more alive, a little more whole. Or perhaps, I was always whole, and the verses merely revealed what was hidden—buried beneath layers of doubt and despair. Perhaps all I truly needed was an asylum, a sanctuary in the vast and tumultuous world I called my own. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where the hunched back of my spirit could straighten itself with dignity, where my gaze could rise to meet the endless sky instead of remaining chained to the ground that would someday claim me. A place where my words could flow freely, uninterrupted, unjudged, heard by ears willing to listen, by hearts brave enough to understand.

Maybe that's what I longed for. Maybe that's what I had always sought. Maybe that was worth everything.

But no asylum appeared, no refuge welcomed me in. I, the wanderer of the endless blue skies and the vast, dark waters, grew smaller with each passing day. With every sunrise and sunset, I felt myself shrinking further, confined not just by the world around me but by the walls I had built within myself. I, the pariah of my own existence, sought solace in fleeting comforts that made me feel larger, if only for a moment.

In the cramped quarters of my life, far too small to contain the boundless depth of my soul, I searched for meaning in all the wrong places. My meals grew larger, plates overflowing, as if the abundance could silence the gnawing hunger within—a hunger not for sustenance, but for significance. I didn't crave food; I craved proof that I mattered. The oversized portions weren't nourishment but justification, a way to affirm my existence in a world where value seemed tied to what could be measured, weighed, consumed. In a world that dismissed those without worth as burdens, I clung to these hollow rituals, hoping they would make me feel whole.

And yet, even as I tried to fill the emptiness, the hollowness remained. My soul yearned not for food but for acknowledgment, for validation. I longed to be seen—not as a fleeting shadow but as something real, something meaningful. I longed to be heard, my voice rising above the din of indifference. I longed to be understood, my tangled thoughts unraveled by someone who cared enough to try. But in this vast, unrelenting world, I felt perpetually diminished, my worth a question unanswered.

Worse still, I diminished myself. My own mind, relentless and unforgiving, reduced me further with every passing thought. Each moment of self-pity drowned me a little more, pulling me under the tides of my own despair. Yet somewhere, deep within that ocean of doubt, there remained a spark. A part of me refused to yield. A stubborn ember clung to life, defying the weight of the water pressing down upon it.

This fragment of myself, small but resilient, whispered of hope. It reminded me, in quiet moments, that the world's indifference did not define me. That my existence, no matter how seemingly insignificant, held meaning—not in its justification to others, but in its unyielding persistence.

I am still here, it seemed to say. I am still alive.

A part of him resisted the relentless tide of hopelessness, standing firm against the forces that sought to drag him under and bury him beneath the weight of his despair. Even if he could never find the space he so desperately craved, even if the recognition he yearned for remained an unreachable dream—even if he remained a small fragment of an even smaller person—there was a quiet, unyielding defiance within him.

This part of him ignited like a solitary flame, a flickering light that refused to be extinguished. Its glow was not blinding, nor its heat overwhelming, but it was steady, resolute—a steadfast beacon burning bright against the cold, merciless winds of despair. It was not a roaring inferno that consumed all in its path, but rather a persistent, enduring light that stood untouched by the doubts of his mind and the crushing burdens of his soul. It was the last bastion of his defiance, a fragile yet indomitable reminder that even amidst the darkness, something within him still fought to survive.

There was a part of him that refused to bend, refused to break, refused to despair. A part of him that stood unflinching in the face of death, laughing at its inevitability, mocking its claim over him. And yet, this same part wept in the arms of life, embracing its fragile, fleeting beauty despite the pain that came with it. For all its struggles, for all its scars, it cherished the bittersweet gift of being alive, however small and insignificant that life may have seemed.

This part of him no longer needed to be large to feel whole. It no longer sought validation in size, in grandeur, or in recognition. Instead, it found solace in its smallness, discovering in that acceptance a profound and quiet strength—a strength that whispered to him in a voice soft yet unwavering: You are enough.

This strength did not demand more from him; it did not ask him to outshine or outlast. It simply existed, a steady pulse of reassurance, a gentle reminder that his worth was not tied to the world's indifference or its harsh judgments. It was a part of him that embraced his flaws, his fears, and his frailties, carrying them not as burdens but as truths. And in that acceptance, he found a peace he had not believed possible.

His defiance was not grand, not marked by bold declarations or heroic gestures. It was quiet but resolute, the simple, persistent act of existing. Of continuing to breathe, to feel, to dream, even when the weight of the world pressed down on him. It was in the refusal to let the tide pull him under completely. It was in the flame that burned within—a flame small but unyielding, fragile but fierce.

And perhaps that was enough.

Yet, in the vast, intricate grand scheme of things, that part remained utterly insignificant—just as he had always been. Even when scaled down to smaller, more manageable standards, when reduced to the tiniest fractions of existence, he was still small. Insignificant. And he knew it. The bitter awareness lingered, an unshakable truth that clung to him like a shadow. It wasn't as though he had ever wanted to be small. No, the longing within him refused to be silenced, an unspoken rebellion against the confines of his existence.

He yearned for more. Oh, how he yearned. It wasn't a fleeting desire, nor a whimsical daydream; it was a deep, aching hunger that gnawed at his very soul. He longed to be larger than life, to rise above the noise, to stand tall and be seen, to speak and be heard. He wanted to transcend the mundane, to shed the monotony of simply existing. He wanted to live—not merely survive, not merely scrape by in the endless grind of days that blurred into nights. He wanted to feel the vitality of life coursing through his veins, electrifying his senses and awakening his spirit.

But above all else, he yearned to be free. Free. That simple word echoed in his mind like a distant melody, haunting and alluring. He craved freedom from the relentless hassle of everyday life, from the unyielding burdens of expectations and consequences. He wanted liberation from the stifling weight of judgment, from the critical, watchful eyes of the world that seemed to dissect his every move. He wanted to shake off the invisible chains that bound him, to step out from under the oppressive weight of existence and into the boundless expanse of possibility.

He didn't just want to exist as a nameless face in the crowd, blending into obscurity like so many others. No, he wanted to truly live. To thrive. To flourish. He dreamed of breathing deeply—inhale after liberating inhale—air so fresh and pure that it seemed to cleanse not just his lungs but his very soul. He imagined walking through life unburdened, shoulders light, steps unhesitant. He longed to discard the masks he wore daily, the personas crafted to please, to conform, to survive. He wanted to stand, unapologetically himself, in a sea of masked faces.

He didn't want to be remembered out of convenience, out of circumstance, or obligation. He wanted his life to mean something, to matter in a way that was undeniable. He yearned to leave behind a legacy, a trail of moments and memories so luminous that they would endure, long after he was gone. He wanted a life worth remembering—not for its length, but for its depth, its vibrancy, its unapologetic fullness.

He wanted to—oh, there was so much he wanted. So many things. Dreams that stretched beyond the limits of his reach, desires that beckoned like stars in a dark, unyielding sky. He wanted to break free from the hollow shell of his existence and step boldly into the wilderness of the truly living. To cast aside fear and hesitation, to run wild and unrestrained toward a life where possibilities were infinite.

He understood the price of these dreams. Oh, he knew the cost all too well. Mentally, he had prepared himself, rehearsing the sacrifices, measuring the weight of the consequences in his mind. Spiritually, he had already made payments, surrendering fragments of his essence to hopes and despair, to silent prayers and broken promises. But physically—physically, he had yet to make the leap. The price, tangible and immediate, stood before him, waiting to be paid in full.

And so he stood there, teetering on the fragile edge of his own indecision. A place where fear and hope intertwined, where the suffocating certainty of what was clashed with the boundless uncertainty of what could be. The question lingered, unspoken yet thunderous: would he find the courage to leap? Or would he remain anchored, bound by the chains he so desperately wanted to break?

He stayed bound by the chains, searching endlessly for the courage to leap. But when that courage finally ignited within him, when it burned hot enough to propel him forward, it was far too late to jump. Time, relentless and indifferent, had marched on without him. The window of opportunity had closed, leaving him standing on the precipice of what could have been.

Regrets piled up like stones, heavy and immovable, suppressing his courage to the barest flicker. He could still feel it—the ember of defiance within—but the weight of his regrets rendered it powerless. It was as though his courage had become a ghost, intangible and haunting, a reminder of the choices he hadn't made and the chances he hadn't taken.

He was a step away from life and a lifetime away from truly living. That single step, so small and yet so monumental, stretched before him like an unbridgeable chasm. He could see the other side—the freedom, the light, the boundless possibility—but he could do nothing but feel the gap, a void carved by fear, hesitation, and the unrelenting ache of "too late."

He stood there, rooted to the spot, feeling the bittersweet sting of his existence: close enough to dream but too far to reach. The chains didn't just bind his body—they bound his will, tethering him to a life of yearning without fulfillment, of courage without action.

And still, the ember flickered. Faint, but alive. A quiet defiance against the weight of all he'd lost.

He was me.