~ Remorse always becomes a story ~

Each one gets tired of their own wishes once. He wakes up in a gloomy morning completely alone, and starts scrolling albums with faded pictures. In front of his, still dreamy eyes, people, gaps and photos of meaningless events and smiling faces pass by, whose names he has long ceased to remember. As he watches them, it seems to him that he is watching the life of a stranger. Though he is persistently trying to concentrate, his thoughts are running out of that album, and, against his will, they rummage through the days from the past that he did not record the camera. With awakening, these unrecorded moments become clearer. After many years, when portraits from the album slowly begin to disappear in the fog of the past, he begins to realize that only what he hides from himself remains permanently and unchanged. Because of that hidden and unchangeable, he often stayed awake and upset until late in the night while everyone else slept. As he recalls many of the sleepless nights, his thoughts, like a passenger who lost his luggage and missed the last flight, went to the place where he passed by fate. Surrounded by darkness and silence, he again wondered why he always early or late for all in his life, and why, never, but never, he did not arrive on time. Sad and disappointing eyes, which he tried many times to forget and escape from them, as if by agreement, gather around him and look at him persistently. He tries to resist these views, but without success. It seems to him that they reach to every point of his consciousness. Remorse, like a stray bone, tries to get out of his womb, and he persistently refrains from throwing it out. He begins to get stuck in his own contradictions. He becomes a witness, a juror and a judge himself. His judicial process becomes long, complex, intricate and dark, as well as the path he has crossed. In the imaginary courtroom, portraits that bring him insomnia and restlessness change. They accuse him of betrayal, libel, deception, theft and pain, and they want to get back taken away part of their heart and the days spent in a false hope. They persecute him with their painful truth and indestructible evidence and ask him to confess that he is guilty. He does not want to confess guilt and blame others. He refuses to make a judgment and postpones it for a moment when he has gathered enough strength and courage to face it. Remorse does not want to wait for that moment. It becomes cruel, burdens him, and wants to tell its story. It’s the only way it can prove it’s alive. He escapes from this story and moves quickly to the first dark, unknown street, to the first pub, and to the first big crowd of the accused. Surrounded by many confessions and truths, he feels better because he realizes he is not lonely. Confused by so many sinners, he is still not sure he is awake. While he looks at unknown faces in the half-light, he thinks that he may have just strayed into a blind alley and ran into such a strange place, or perhaps it has been created from nowhere to help him justify himself. Even for a moment, it seemed to him that perhaps for the first time in his life he had arrived in time. One thing is certain: after the escape, there is no return. Everything becomes waiting. So remorse, as one of many full glasses at his table, is waiting patiently last drop to overflow. He feels that only that one drop is enough to get everything from him to crash like an avalanche, and he knows that he will not be able to stop it until a hill is completely uncovered, under whose snow for years he has overwhelmed everything he hides from himself and that the hill will be the place of his last fall. He is persistently trying to hide the sun behind the clouds and postpone that fall, but feels that the moment of confession is nearing, and he is running out of time to find evidence that he is not guilty. His hands begin to tremble, and his look is anxiously wandering around the mass and stops on the first dirty inscription under a small red heart-shaped lamp: “Playing with someone’s feelings is a great sin. Those who carry it on the soul, once, when they least expect it, face it.” Scared, he becomes sure he is awake and has fallen into the trap. He can not find the way out and ask himself who hid it. The worm of doubt does not give him peace. Perhaps some of those sad and disappointed eyes, who are constantly gathering around him, play with him, or it is done by someone who is constantly following him, and maybe this is the end, the way without exit. He remembers that he read somewhere that remorse always appears at the end of the road, at moments when many tries to wash away sins before going to that world. The fear of that going is taking him more and more, and he begins to lose his orientation. Every step takes him only to the cold walls, between which some strange laughter and a pensive view, mixed with the smell of alcohol, occasionally stray. A false hope, like a ghost, begins to appear in every eye. In a half-light, smoky pub, in the sea of unknown faces, he begins to search hurriedly those who will listen and justify him. He tries to attract their attention and convince them that his story is interesting, but none of those blurred faces trust him because he has no evidence. Everyone just turns their head because they have listened too much to such stories, watches his glass and checks if it is full enough to sink all his nightmares into it. He becomes annoying and, through the story, he tries to revive everything that he once let himself die. He opens his diary in front of everyone, scrolls it, shows dates and names but no one wants to watch. In a dingy pub, they all opened their diaries a long time ago, scrambled them and closed them. After that closing, everything becomes only waiting. Faced with that waiting, which slowly disappeared with every empty glass, like a fish with a harpoon in its heart, he slowly begins to die. He realizes that he is in dungeon, convicted for all his sins and caprices, chained with remorse, which in the end always becomes and remains only a story because forgiveness does not wait for it. So lonely and tired of many wanderings and re-examining, it follows its master until his last awakening.
Remorse always becomes a story, author Suzana Stojanović, February 28, 2018