Regret and the Power of the Moment

Moments of fate, bound not by the universes grasp on the human soul, but the act of rebellion against order.

A situation soaked in possibility; ready to be wrung by old callused hands.

It was to be for me the distinguishing moment where I was to be shown the power and meaning.

I had the option to be anything but predictable,  the moment lingered in the air as time is dust and space is but a single frame.

What else would the moment be called but missed, if it were not worked upon?

Had the universe been left unchallenged, had life failed to produce its champion?

A failure of the body and soul to the point of complete ineptitude.

The soul should surely sliver into its den. Cover itself in layers of shame while bricks are laid to pile above consciousness.

Yet, to the credit of the condemned he was deluded. Masks of obscuring and falsehoods lead to the state where that moment didn't exist.

For I had no eyes, rather now I can see. 

So, when next I would encounter the moment I might rebel.