Regret is a dangerous thing. It strives to tear down structures built with the blood, sweat, and unshed tears of a person who doesn’t understand the importance of her creations. Regret cannot be permitted to succeed in destroying the beautiful achievements of a man whose only crime is hiding from himself.
There’s a balance between appreciation and arrogance. There’s a balance between shame and embarrassment. Where does regret fit into that strained harmony? It doesn’t. It can’t. It has no place to call home. And so it invades our belief in ourselves.
There’s an oft-shared cliché, that says, essentially: one should not dwell in the past because one cannot change it and one should not dwell in the future because there is no assurance it will ever come; only the present deserves our attention.
Sometimes, clichés hold powerful truths. Regret lives in the past; it should be allowed to stay there.