For the past couple of weeks, I have had a serious bout of the blues. The shouting, yelling and screaming of the present smashes with full force into my perpetual habitation of the past. It is true: contrary to the habit of the pious believer, I live my life too much in the past, always mulling over past mistakes. Too often I have fled difficult situations or events beyond my control, without ever seeking closure, so that they gnaw away at me for years on end. I know I must seek refuge in the Lord of time, and discover a truer faith which allows me to escape my morass. Easier said than done.
Moving on is never easy. We cling to the past, even when all evidence makes clear that those days are gone. Yes, like that old friend of mine, long departed. That companion with whom I thought I shared a bond. It has been years since we saw one-another, but for years I kept in touch. I should have noticed that it was a one-way relationship. If I did not contact them, we would have no connection at all; when we spoke, I would ask them how they were, but they never reciprocated. I did not mind; they had been ill, so I made allowances. I just wanted to hear that they were well and doing okay. Yes, so I hung on, long past our expiry date. No longer. I have, at last, moved on.
The past is a room I can no longer enter. That door has been locked. All we have left is the present and the future. Perhaps the time has come to close those old doors behind me. To repent, silently, for all the wrong I did, and finally move on. Ah, but the blues: leave me, leave me, please.
Last modified: 19 February 2021
