The contradiction shows itself only briefly.
You may have kissed him for what seemed like eons, but your fate is sealed. You'll feel it in your body forever and it drives you crazy when you no longer can kiss him again. Sex cannot compare to this kiss. Good conversation cannot compare to this kiss. No amount of self-progression can compare to this kiss.
It is as if the only thing that mattered was that single moment of an embrace with another that could never be you, never be with you, and you knew the circumstances, and you continued to kiss him anyway.
Yet when you think of him, there is only a hollowness, a vaguenesss to any sort of mutual recognition of the event. You could call him, but you can never reach him. He's dead already, and no clairvoyant can get him to confess. So you have no proof to this horrible crime that has taken your life. So you must go through your days wounded without ever knowing true trauma.
Until years go by and you stumble upon pictures of yourself. You know it's you, but you know he's not. You realize that you yourself have been dead. And you see the world with full compassion for life. And somehow you have failed to come about heaven nor hell, just this waking dream of memories strung together as a future that makes no sense. And it is you who has never confessed, and can never be reached. There is a hollow, transparent wall between you and the rest of the world. And you're not sad, nor numb. You swear you even feel more. You in fact do.
It's always the same when you realize you were wrong. But this time it's different.
