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.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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