Vox Meditantis

I say sorry to the lamp post I’ve walked into,
to the door that closed before I reached it,
to the rain for getting caught in it.
I apologise to my apologies –
a recursive loop of contrition
that spins itself dizzy.

My mother says it makes me small.
My therapist calls it a defence mechanism.
My friends have stopped noticing.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to know:
some mistakes are load-bearing walls –
remove them and the whole architecture
of who you are comes tumbling down.

So I’ll keep saying sorry to inanimate objects,
to strangers who’ve bumped into me,
to the universe for taking up space.
Not because I don’t know better,
but because without this gentle erosion
of my own sharp edges,
I wouldn’t recognise the shape of myself
in the mirror.

After all, we are what we repeatedly do –
and I am repeatedly,
persistently,
unapologetically
sorry.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.