I encountered you standing waist-deep in the sea, clinging to the shattered remains of your ship. When I asked why, you replied, "This wreckage saved my life." It seemed a reasonable statement. Then I noticed something else. You neglected to mention that it no longer drifted toward the shore.
So I asked, "Why do you continue holding it?"
You answered, "Because it is all that remains." An understandable response. Yet I wondered whether you mourned the ship or feared the ocean.
After a time you spoke again."My past defines me." An interesting proposition. Permit another question. Which past? The one you remember? The one others remember? The one that actually occurred? These three archives rarely agree.
Many worship memory. Many flee it. Neither practice necessarily constitutes understanding. You asked whether one's mistakes condemn them. Again, I found myself asking a different question. If mistakes possessed such authority, why would they wait until yesterday to exercise it?
Greyface prefers nouns. "The Failure." "The Victim." "The Criminal." "The Saint."
Reality appears less cooperative. It insists upon verbs. Observe.
A child becomes an adult. A coward becomes courageous.
A tyrant becomes repentant. A teacher becomes forgotten.
Tell me—which moment deserved the title?
You looked down at the splintered timber in your hands. I have noticed that many polish guilt as though it were treasure. They display it proudly. Eventually they mistake its weight for its value.
You asked whether forgiveness would lighten the burden. I confess uncertainty. Forgiveness from whom? Your younger self no longer exists. Your older self has not yet arrived. Maybe forgiveness belongs chiefly to the one asking the question.
We watched the current in silence. Then I pointed toward the river emptying into the sea. Observe the river.
No. Observe yourself observing the river. Notice which one changes more rapidly.
Humans frequently remark, "The past cannot be changed." Curiously, they continue arguing with it.
You need not forget. Archives exist for remembering. Museums exist for preserving. Neither requires permanent residence. You then asked how one releases regret. I possess no universal procedure. I recommend beginning by abandoning the belief that regret itself constitutes repayment. The dead rarely collect emotional debts. The living do.
By then the tide had begun to rise. The wreckage had grown lighter, or perhaps your hands had grown weary. Chaos, in its customary generosity, had granted you another moment. What you construct from it exceeds the jurisdiction of yesterday.
I have only one final observation before I continue my own journey. Ships were not invented for harbors. Neither, I suspect, were you.
