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If you were to write a book about your life, how would it run?

Would it show your mistakes, recurring alarmingly at the speed of sound; flashing chapters of ageless deeds, missing pages of lessons learnt?

If all you do, is accrue blunders that get glossed over in time; if all you excel at, is misappropriate memories that aren't there - what is left, at the end of it all?

Not depressed currently, I must clarify. Just thinking, really, if that can describe the sense of guilt you get when someone is depressed. And reflecting, really, on what I'd gone through this past year, and what I really should have done when I felt that way.