Forgetfulness

"That’s right. I aint like that no more. I’m just a fella now…I don’t kill nobody, no more…"

Is it a natural occurrence, I wonder…to feverishly strive to preserve innocence in others, when you yourself are left with none? Surely there are a few serial killers out there, robbed of their innocence at childhood, who would serve as an argument to the contrary. Is it choice, then, or the lack thereof, that dictates whether or not a corrupt man will one day reject himself to defend purity? Perhaps one who destroyed his own innocence is allowed regret, and a desire for some form of atonement…while those who lack the choice, and have it forced upon them, feel neither moral qualms, nor aversions to deviant action.

I wish I could have forgetfulness. Too many atrocious things have I done…too many festering memories do I have bubbling beneath my grey matter; they rise, without cause or provocation or reminder, regularly, to gnaw at my face, and force splintery wooden staffs down my throat. Can I blame myself for playing the flute, and playing it well, despite the children I lead off of a cliff with it? How could I ignore such a natural talent, at that age? This is the true face of regret…not a mistake, or a negative twist of fate, from which a lesson can be learned…but a senseless choice to do the worst possible thing, at the worst possible time, and the haunting pain that lingers forever after. Selective forgetfulness would be bliss, if it were possible, if I deserved it…but I would take a general forgetfulness as well. And I will…eventually.