O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins because I fear the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all, because I have offended you, my God, who are so good an deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, do penance, and amend my life, Amen.

I don’t like formulated prayers because most of the time, people memorize more than they speak from the heart. That’s a shame, really, because some of these prayers are wonderful. The Prayer for Generosity is absolutely beautiful.

I’ve forgotten the name of the above prayer, but I do know that it’s what you recite before you receive confession – a sort of cleansing ritual before receiving the Body of Christ. I’ve never particularly liked it, especially since I am forever unable to do the last three things that prayer subscribes me to do. I feel like a liar everytime I say it in my head because I somehow know that I won’t be able to do those things. Sin, I can. Unsin, I cannot.

But, I guess, I do see the relative use of that prayer. How else do you explain to children why they must not sin? Because heaven is where you want to be and hell is a pit of fire, or layers of suffering and torture for your greatest pattern of sin, if you’re Dante.

The best heroes are the greatest sinners. Their paths to redemption, from sinners to saints, make for beautiful prose and even more compelling poetry. A squeaky clean person is boring on paper. There’s no denouement because there’s no climax. Tension is contrived instead of gripping. Readers are invested, and their emotions are twisted by great anti-heroes. Because when heroes sin, they show us that they’re also human, and that temptation gets to them as well.

To err is human. To sin is even more human. To attain redemption is the core of humanity. We know when we sin, and we want to erase every speckle of that dirty stain. Nobody wants to be in a state of sin. The goal is to break from the mold of sin – to scrub off every trace that we have sinned. But it’s in sin that we learn, and through sin that we grow. We become happy – gloriously so – when we sin, but the happiness is enveloped by a foreboding sadness and guilt. Like chocolate so rich and so dark it can’t be anything else but sinful. Sin makes you tough, but it makes your bone brittle and your body susceptible to breaking.

Why do we sin? Because we can’t help it. Our natural tendency is to sin and be sinful. And it’s only with great, almost an iron-clad willpower that we break away from sin. Because to sin is to offend love. On the other hand, love is always haunted by sinfulness. Every great love is, at one point, sinful. Because sin is akin to pain, which is not the opposite of love, but rather it’s mirror. It’s as if the good witch looking at a mirror and seeing the bad witch. Sin is always next to goodness because without sin, there is nothing good and clean because without sin, then nothing would be the stain to make you think of what it could be without that stain.

And now I am rambling, because in my world, to ramble is a sinful pleasure.

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