As I walk through the Grave Yard and count the number of regrets I have, I am astounded at their number. Headstones have sunk into the earth, toppled over or stand as tall as a monolythic pillar-bodies laid to rest, but their ghosts still remain. Sinister markers that have turned black against the back-drop of the fading light.
He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.
-Stephen King, It
So many things that I wish I could do over, or never had done in the first place. I lower the brim of my hat over my brow and turn the collar of my coat up to protect against the cold wind. I’m going home. Today, like so many days, I feel as though my life has been a waste.
Not long ago, a friend told me that he would check me into a mental health clinic if he had to. That may come sooner than I expected.