Who am I?
Am I simply an old man who has long passed his golden days?
A man weighed down by regret.
A man tempered by wisdom earned too late.
I have been many things in my life, yet I have never looked as deeply into my own soul as I do now.
I know I am dying. This wretched cancer has spread through my body, and with it comes the weight of all I failed to do.
If I am granted one last wish, it is this — to leave my story behind, so that whoever reads these words does not walk the same path into ruin.
I had believed I had all the time in the world to mend my mistakes. To seek forgiveness for my transgressions.
I did not.
Heed my words, little one, and listen well. You are only given one life, and you must live it fully. Love that girl. Call your mother. Check on your friends.
I write these words because I did not. I was a liar. A cheat. A despicable man—now staring into the abyss, awaiting my descent into hell.
I am filled with regret born of my own mistakes, a guilt I have carried my whole life. I spent many years running from my problems instead of standing before a mirror and accepting the cause.
How could I ever have been a great man, when I lived staring backwards instead of forward? People claim the future is a mystery, but history repeats itself for those who refuse to face it.
Look at me now. I must seem pitiful to you—a dying man confessing his failures and offering his final wish as penance.
If you take nothing else from my words, take this: I do not seek pity, and neither should you. My sins are heavy, but they are mine to bear, just as yours are yours alone.
Do not look to others to carry your burden. Ask for help when you need it, but do not surrender your will to another.
These words are written in the blood of my mistakes. I can only pray you have listened well.
I have attached a journal to this letter. Read it carefully, and understand how I came to be this way.
I wish the best for you, little one. May blessings rain upon you, and my words inspire you to be greater than I ever was.