Seventeen, although didn’t seem so, has been the age that I question my rights and wrongs the most.
At some points, a few years ago, I came across a thought of dumb things I could have done when I was younger, and “no one would have blamed me”. No one could have. “She’s only a kid” they’d say.
Sixteen I moved to America, basically on my own. Still a kid, didn’t question anything “better”, didn’t have to be anybody. Still a kid, nobody asks for any greatness from me.
Although quite anxious already, I was on a moderate pace expecting something would chariot me to somewhere. “I’m young, I have every right to be stupid” I even told myself this, somewhat proudly even.
Besides, right and wrong was white and black.
At seventeen it woke me that I’m running out of time.
Regarding wrongs, I’ve never let God define my sins. Instead I was my own god for the most part. However, He would forgive me as long as I ask him to, with sincerity and repentance. I, though, have more difficulty forgiving myself, forgiving lust, forgiving dishonesty, hatred, greed. Sometimes I wanted to scream but had to silence myself, my vice tortures me but it doesn’t deserve a voice.
Ironically, no, paradoxically rather, being unable to justify self guilt is a sign of integrity. Phrasing it a different way, still feel the urge to live certain parts of life that aren’t necessarily harmless, I no more allow myself to do wrong the way I used to. There has been more less contrasting shades, there is gray. There is pleasure in sin, there is torment too. .
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