There is a point where confession stops clearing the air and starts clouding it.
You can tell because the sentences multiply, not the insight.
Every โIโ becomes a mirror reflecting the same face, just closer.
When guilt turns into autobiography, it is not healing – it is hoarding.
We catalogue every regret, hoping that naming it will make it disappear,
but all it really does is build a museum of our own making โ
ticketed entry, no exits.
That is what happens when we try to intellectualise shame instead of feeling it.
It breeds details.
And details breed distance.
Soon, the story is not about another person at all โ it is about how convincingly we can narrate our remorse.
The internet loves that kind of pain:
eloquent, trackable, endlessly expandable.
But real healing is smaller.
Quieter.
It does not need paragraphs.
Just a pause, a breath, a decision to stop talking and start changing.
