regret

Take the stupidest thing you've ever done. At least it's done. It's over. It's gone. We can all learn from our mistakes and heal and move on. But it's harder to learn or heal or move on from something that hasn't happened; something we don't know and is therefore indefinable; something which could very easily have been the best thing in our lives, if only we'd taken the plunge, if only we'd held our breath and stood up and done it, if only we'd said yes.

The only thing worse than regretting the things you've done is regretting the things you didn't do.

Only those who vacillate have the possibility to regret. Those who know what they want, they have it easy; if everything goes wrong, they know they did not have a choice.

In life do what you want. Becauseyou'll regret it later on when you can nolonger do it

If you had to relive your life exactly as it was _ same successes and failures, same happiness, same miseries, same mixture of comedy and tragedy _ would you want to? Was it worth it?

I don't like forgetting, Elías," I said with my eyes closed. A single tear slipped down my cheek and I let it. "I don't want to forget these moments that constantly remind me of who I am, who I was, and who you are. I don't want to forget my past and all the things about this world that's brought me here. With you.""So then why do you try?" he asked, his gaze searching my face. "Be here with me, T. Exist with me, because there isn't any other way I'd love you more.""I-I don't belong to you.""Bullshit. You've belonged to me since that night on the alabaster hill. I had you then, and I swore to keep you.""You-""Just stop." Eli placed a finger to my lips as he held me closely and slid a hand down my back. He palmed my shoulder and the place where a piece of him would forever harbor. "Stop making up excuses. Stop hiding. Stop running from me. You're the light at the end of my tunnel, my saving grace, and you don't even know it, Trinity.

Have You Prayed_ When the windturns and asks, in my father__ voice,Have you prayed?I know three things. One:I__ never finished answering to the dead.Two: A man is four winds and three fires.And the four winds are his father__ voice,his mother__ voice . . .Or maybe he__ seven winds and ten fires.And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,dreaming, thinking . . .Or is he the breath of God?When the wind turns travelerand asks, in my father__ voice, Have you prayed?I remember three things.One: A father__ loveis milk and sugar,two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what__ left overis trimmed and leavened to make the breadthe dead and the living share.And patience? That__ to endurethe terrible leavening and kneading.And wisdom? That__ my father__ face in sleep.When the windasks, Have you prayed?I know it__ only mereminding myselfa flower is one station betweenearth__ wish and earth__ rapture, and bloodwas fire, salt, and breath long beforeit quickened any wand or branch, any limbthat woke speaking. It__ just mein the gowns of the wind,or my father through me, asking,Have you found your refuge yet?asking, Are you happy?Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.

Regret is her companion and the one who whispers to her often. She has even let hope die and that brings about despair.

I'd wasted so much of my life. So many of my days, and all of my promise, all of my dreams, lost to hospitals, to depression, to wanting to die. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This is not who I am.Except, of course, it was. It was all there was left to be.

In times like these I always cheered myself up with a certain story. I forgot just when I first heard it, or who I heard it from... but, back when I was young it would cheer me up when I was feeling depressed. Basically, you think of life in terms of a single 24 hour day. So if you take the average human lifespan, to be around 72 years, then dividing that by 24... that comes to 3 years per hour. Meaning, that if you were 18 it'd only be 6 AM! 6 in the morning is nothing! Schools aren't even open by then! It's only been a couple of hours before sunrise, the day's just begun! So if you're 18, you can still fix you life by then! In fact even if you were 30 year old, that's still only 10 AM! The sun's still high, and there's still 2 hours until noon! You still have the whole afternoon to fix your life! You could still make something of yourself. I've always been thinking that, but... I'm now 45 years old! 45 divided by 3 is 15 meaning, that the time 3PM! Ring Ring Ring! I can hear the clock, ringing in my mind! There's only 2 hours before work is over at 5PM! I can't redo anything, it's almost time to go home already.

It seems to me that our lives are consumed by countless wasting years, but only a few shining moments. I missed mine. Yes is what I should have said. Of course I should have said yes.

It's not wrong to feel sorry for yourself. Just like it's not wrong to stand in a puddle of water while the rain pours down on your head. But neither is productive, unless you enjoy feeling cold and miserable and soggy while mascara runs down your face.

Regret, albeit raw and relentless, is almost always unremarkable.

I've got a bad case of the 3:00 am guilts - you know, when you lie in bed awake and replay all those things you didn't do right? Because, as we all know, nothing solves insomnia like a nice warm glass of regret, depression and self-loathing.

Unfortunately, just like bullets, you can never get words back once they have been sent out into the world.

I have learned that I should be careful with the words I choose to say when I am angry because later, those words always leave a huge wound of regrets in my heart besides hurting the loved ones. Those wounds can't be healed!

Poirot, watching him, felt suddenly a doubt--an uncomfortable twinge. Was there, here, something that he had missed? Some richness of the spirit? Sadness crept over him. Yes, he should have become acquainted with the classics. Long ago. Now, alas, it was too late....

Looking back on my life, I sigh. The caprice of youth goes with the wind, I__e no regrets.