Recriminations

This has been one of those weeks that leave you in a sort of bewildered stupor, uncertain and unsettled in a way that makes it thoroughly impossible to see how the bits of your life ever once fit together in a pattern that used to make some sort of sense. Sometimes it's difficult not to become inhabited by the echoes of the past, to extract yourself from those memories which are in themselves utterly inextricable from the reverberations of regret, from the silence of unasked questions and unbegotten answers. Patience isn't always a virtue; it's possible to have waited too diligently and too persistently, for a season of ripeness that has in fact slipped past already, past the time of blooming and withering, and those missed opportunities lie festering and rotting on the ground with all the putrefying condemnation of regret.