Conscience

(The following is in response to this writer's cue, from this amazing page on Facebook.
Link: http://writers-write-creative-blog.posthaven.com/daily-writing-prompt-kGW1D7 )
The scariest place I've ever visited, is my conscience.
My conscience, where all my masks, all my pretension, comes undone.
Where all my lies, white or not, get refurbished with the strength of reality to look me in the eye.
Where there is a series of situations playing on a white screen. Situations where I've let someone down, hurt somebody intentionally, turned a blind eye towards a person who needs my help.
It's a room.
I enter the room naked.
Sans any ostentatious facade.
And when I open the door to this almirah which seems to be bursting at the seams, all my deeds come crashing onto me.
A room which despite seeming massive, feels like it is warping and shrinking. Which despite giving me enough room to breathe, seems to be choking me mentally.
This room does exist. Despite being fictional and purely a part of my imagination, it is somehow a part of reality.
Every day, me, a person scared of the repercussions of all my crimes looks in to this room through a keyhole, partially mortified and partially curious. And right when I feel my hand at the door knob trying to unlock the door, the fear of bearing the consequences, the pain of re-living each misdeed I committed, grips me and I turn away. Procrastinating the exploration of that room to another a day, a day when I'll probably be ready to face the fact that no matter how mighty high my thoughts might be, my shallowness has, sometimes, been overpowering enough to lead me to commit deeds that invite me to nothing more than self-contempt.