Nobody talks about regrets. You’ve never heard it here before. It’s not fashionable, perhaps it never was. What’s hot is the ease with which we fabricate, instantly, useful excuses to ignore them. The personal welfare at all costs, the fallacy of not feeling responsible or guilty of anything. At its best our age is an age of searchers and discoverers, and at its worst, an age that has domesticated despair and learned to live with it happily.
That’s what it’s at, but sometimes it’s not. Not this way today.
I don’t know about you, but in my intimate recalls I have some regrets, or ravages that have to do with them. No survival goes unpunished, and it was many years treading strange roads and broken glass. I know, just excuses, is what they seem today. Sometimes the damage done to others is still present in our memory and will accompany us to the end, forcing us to look at it face to face. Sometimes. Today.
If only… must be the two saddest words. Mistakes I’ve made are breathless to me, but I can’t take back the things I never did. That I and I’ll regret.
So here I am. A sum of the pieces. Bitterly thinking about a friendship that fell apart with age, absence, and the breach of youth. Sadness or regret, I’m trying not to confuse. A complex thing at times. Who cares anyway? Both are they, and here are now.
Or was perhaps doom. Possibly not.
But things bantam as the vast death, more I purported with levity to look at it, brought me up right here, right now, and while all the fear of the wasted years laughs between my ears, I realize that there was no other way, that the straightest of lines is always a capricious and perplexed path, so here at the end I am. Things once thought of as delusions or neglects, a handful of angry words, I take away, and I’m suddenly different, with a different past, a different next.
And here I sit, crying for a person I once dreamed my best friend. A man who might be full of ire, anguish, perhaps distress, who might not give a damn, or who might, just might; and I remember the future and realize that’s where it’s at.
And that is what I regret.
Time is passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never had to think about anything as much as I think about you.
Father – by Dugutigui
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).