Today, I'm wearing my coffee stained jeans. The ones I'd tucked at the back of my wardrobe and had to pull out in a rush this morning. In which, of course, I forgot all about the fateful stain. It's barely noticeable and since I'm not doing anything important, not like the world will see it. Or my jeans. Or me in my jeans. But I was wondering how old this particular stain was and if it'll come out in the wash. And then, my mind drifted onto more spiritual subjects. Doesn't it always...
How come people come into our lives and smear it all over, only to leave us more feverish than if we had the flu? And I wish they'd give us the recipe for removing these marks. I don't want to carry a stain of disappointment because I let down my parents and didn't become a doctor. I don't need my heart to be like a puzzle of stains thanks to all the people that broke it and left me breathless and feeling dirty, carrying around the small pieces needed to assemble the organ back. Like red wine on a white shirt. Bloody and impossible to remove. Then, there's always those patches from friends, little scrapings of feelings that brush onto me and never leave me. Some good, some bad. Some unforgettable and some I wish they'd never crossed my path.
Of course, perhaps the smudges I really hate are the ones of disappointment towards myself. That I may never become a journalist, because I'm too afraid to put myself out there. That I never learned photography, despite loving it. Or that I never had the courage to go after what I really wanted, because I always thought it wasn't for me. And so the days go by and I live in regret, when all I ever wanted was to be free of this particular feeling. I don't like regret, for it makes me wallow in self pity and contemplate a little too much the troubles of life. And that's when we forget to live. When we're too busy thinking of what might have been. Would we even try to change it, even if we could? Maybe the most courageous ones of us would.
We wear patches of feelings and shadows of the past, all on our hearts. They all make sure to shape us into the people that we are in the present, and we have to live with it until more stains come and hit us, like blotches of paint. Like the world is filled with artists meant to create our painting. They come, they splash, they leave us to deal with the aftermath. But like this coffee stain I'm proudly wearing on my right leg, what stains will eventually come out and which of them will remain forever, like tattoos...?
