I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one bye one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time. It is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
— Sydney J. Harris (via ohohhcheri)