Tuesday, June 3, 2014


She experiences guilt. She feels guilty about a lot of things but her sense of it is unformulated and inchoate. Unformulated because this vague disquiet has an ontology she is yet to locate. Inchoate because a compendium of causalities float around, from which the slivers are yet unextricated. Hence the heavy feeling in her chest, the after effect of guilt, a guilt she can neither resolve and expunge. She feels weighed down, an inexpressible sorrow drags at her but , as aforementioned, the inability to come to terms with this burden gives her melancholia.

Guilt is a prickle of conscience. Guilt is the realization, she realizes, of something wrong that has been done which needs redressal and alleviation. Guilt needs a third person for absolution. She writes furiously in her journals, the dotted, feverish, frenetic scribblings indenting on the page hieroglyphs of conscientious accountability. Yet she feels, despite momentary exculpation, an inadequacy, a need for a third person to confess, to lay the burden of her sins before, to be granted redemption. This,she ruminates, is the unprepossessing but incontrovertible colloquy between guilt and its restitution.

Guilt is a way of the mind to tell itself that actions have consequences. Guilt is acknowledging the social fabric within which our self determination exists. Guilt is the awareness that the self is not the be all and end all of human discourse but that a larger moral, social fabric renders us accountable. Guilt is the coming to grips with the factuality of the limits of the id and the need for a punitive superego to check our actions, to remind us of our  fallibility and propensity of falling from grace. Guilt is the postlapsarian effluvium of original sin.

Months go by. She has traversed a whole gamut of emotions. She fingers the white marks on her wrists, fading, resultant of the wounds she self inflicted with a razor. She recalls the tube coiling her oesophagus from which pills were pumped. She remembers those sessions with the psychoanalyst who taught her the dubious art of self forgiveness and exemption from all personal acts of guilt inducement through the label' clinical depression'. She still feels inundated with guilt. But now she can coexist peacefully with it. She has now accepted the irrevocability of human action and all impossibility of retractability. The guilt now, instead of oppressing her, makes her exultant. Guilt, she figures, is why she feels alive. 

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