Contraindications or Repercussions

In an attempt to write this entry, I raped the backspace button repeatedly and if it to be compared to ladies, I’d be a father to countless progenies. And then I had an affair with undo button, with my excellent cursor clicking technique, I made another babies. Seriously, you don’t want to mess with redo button, she is promiscuous you’ll never want to revisit the bitterness of repeating same mistake. 

If our life to be compared to word processors, how great will it be? We are all presidential with clean slate, no bad history, only good favored things remain. No traces of erased lead or organic ink. No traces of correction fluid or obscuring tape. Don’t like it? Delete and start a new document.

Print yourself excellent drafts, submit it for correction from opinions of fellow intellectual being. The one with higher capacity, they call it wisdom. Rewrite them only to specific parts; rectify, repair, fix, correct wherever needed. Every ‘i’ dotted every ‘t’ crossed. Until you reach ultimate end-result, outcome, product; a life story of ultimate human. Superlative being of perfection beyond imagination.

But alas, life is far from such luxury. We are deemed to imperfection. Ugly like reluctant scars, disfiguring like leprosy, hindering like amputation stump sans prosthetic.

I am as you are; products of ménage a trios. Journey, time and person. We were conceived on various places; nurtured by weather; matured by one another. We are archives specialized in bad histories. Because unlike good memories, those bastards stick the longest. Like an overbearing presence of stalker, a fatal kind that shadow you like personal ghost. That constantly reminds you what a failure you were and probably will ever be.

The stupid things we did we wish we never had. Past debt you’re still paying to raunchy loan shark that is time. Mistakes, errors, faults, lapses, blunders and faux pas. Our life stories carved in stone. Written in indestructible parchment, with indelible ink that neither time nor weather nor force can erase. We are born a parchment. Exist in physical. Written on, scribbles upon, torn, folded and crumpled. Some tossed, some were burnt to ashes.

Life is neither binary nor theory. One that operated not on RAM but reality. No auto-save, no backspace, no option to discard or save. Like an old typewriter, mistakes don’t just disappear however you try to retype over old misspells. Attempts are futile. You will only make it darker and even more obvious, an irony if not vain. You may start a roll onto new line and do it all over again. Or crumple that paper and toss it all away. But it is there in physical, made and done.

Life is all but word processors. Once you fucked up. You wear it on your skin like ugly tattoo. You may choose to regret it, but might as well try living with it.

Life is repercussions…

…of choices you’ve made.