Reflection.

How I wish I had not had to do that, even now. To take a life kills a part of one's soul, and the realization of that hideous act can ultimately crush any sense of self.

That was written years ago, in regards to murder. Why does it still haunt me? And why would I not hesitate to do it again under similar circumstances? Sometimes the world ceases to make sense. The vindicated go free and the innocent drown in their own blood. What the fuck is the problem here? I wish I had the answers. I look to God for guidance and serenity but even there I falter.