It’s useless and ineffectual attempting to prise out, head on, every dreg or remnant of bad deed lodged deep in you. Your own actions leaving bitter stains in your core, that’s to be expected. Nor is it unvain to pretend to let it sleep or, worse yet, render it dead. How can something within you be put out when you, the agent, the wrongdoing agent, is well and truly alive to nurture it in the small, silent hours? Don’t be that inapt person to think your hands are spotless. That is not to say do away with yourself in order to murder a monstrous thought or memory.
It exists. Remorse exists and it’s not pretty and neither are you as it creeps in digustingly like some fever but an icey one when the mind quiets. But not in peace. In restiveness. You’re rocking quite frantically now and sleep won’t save you, not by a long shot. You have to ride it through, it will be good for you. An unsolicited friend of a foe come bearing sharp reminders that you are far from perfect, even if only you need to know it. So in turn you cannot and do not expect perfection from the universe. This will make everything more beautiful to the eye, this notion of consummate imperfections is going to make tomorrow brighter and the days that proceed. You will be tired but we don’t want you wired.