Harrowed Chronicles

It was the harsh grimace upon rememberance that first threw
me.
Upon looking forward for so long,
I'd never contemplated the implications of looking back.
As it was, I remember smiling, a genuine smile, untainted by alcohol or
ego.
From that smile came the chilling happiness of warm summers lost.
Days that seemed so soothing, so beautiful, that they might never
end.
The peacefulness of returning to a simple loving home.
A chasm of repent and forgiveness, a tomb of affection, of all these
things, my heart bled for my home.
I look back upon these times now with deep regret, a condition that has
plagued my latter days.
For, in its cruel irony, regret has the power to taunt the future with
the past.
I have lived my pubescence taunted and solemnly wincing at my
losses.
Guilt, of course, walking hand in hand with self-pity, mithers me when
I express my disdain.
I see others with less fortune, with no hope, yet I still warrant my
sadness with the same value.
To compete on a vast scale with the hatred and pain in this life, this
world, would be no less than pyhrric in its futility.
Constantly aching with echoes of my own mistakes, however small or
great, I miss the past. I miss my friends.
I find my life now making the transition into connection with common
society.
I have become what my mother protected me from for so long, what I used
to be blind to for so many years.
I see things differently now, and it saddens me further to ponder
whether genuine friendship, or loving companionship, can exist in such
a harsh environment.
I hope for the best, but with my vision now clear, I see the things I
took for granted as nothing more than demons of my soul.
Everyone has become corrupt.