My motto has always been this: better regret doing than regret not doing. True, I don’t like suppressing my thoughts and wants. I’m not really an uptight, bottled up person. I want what I want, and I fight for it if I think it does good to me. I don’t go to the extent that I quarrel with my parents or throw tantrums, just enough that if they forbid me from doing something, I’d have a talk with them and make them see the pros and cons, try to make them understand why I want something, try to persuade. I live freely as much as I want, as much as I could within limits set by my parents and society and my religion. I’m curious, adventurous to some point and I get my supply of adrenaline rush from taking risks. I hold the view that every opportunity is golden and only shows up once, so I should strike while the iron is hot. Carpe diem, I say, and so far I’m thankful for the things I’d done – wise and absurd alike. Whatever they were, those experiences I chose to take and do made me learn, made me grow, made me human.
But when it comes to this matter…
The more I do, the more I regret. The more I do, the more I feel bitter. The more inhuman I become. The more beastly I get. A monster, a self-violating phantom. To the point that it’s not the world that stops me from being brilliant and successful and pious, it’s me, it’s my own self. The side of me that I see taunting me from the other side of the mirror.
For this aspect of my life, I honestly regret doing rather than not.