Pointless

I am too tired to think. Too tired to write anything of consequence. Not physically tired. Just worn out, mentally. Tired of trying to understand the world I have created. Too tired to attempt to make sense of chaos. Exhausted from thrashing about in a mire created and cultivated by boors and bigots and barbarians. Certain that I am one of them. Terrified there is nothing I can do about it. Everything I have said and written is tainted by ugly reality. Nothing can be done to recover from a lifetime laced with conscious mistakes. Absolution is out of reach. Eternal grief is the penalty for who I have been and who I am. I am beyond redemption; atonement is a fantasy. I am confident neither life nor death can bring resolution to endless regret. And so I write, in the pointless pursuit of forgiveness that cannot be given by anyone but God, yet knowing there is no God to give it.