An Argument for Guilt

When taken in moderation, anxiety can be a productive emotion. Pick the motivational metaphor that appeals most -- it could be a type of fire, or fuel, or motor. When everything else is in balance, a small dose of anxiety gets me up early in the morning, helps me focus in class and on tests, keeps me going through long afternoons of reading, reminds me to study my music, and provides a backdrop against which the relief of slipping into the pool or singing an open fifth in a wood-panelled room is all the more pronounced.

I don't mean to advocate anxiety, and certainly not in its more pathological forms -- all I mean is that, if everything else is in balance, anxiety is not merely wasted energy, but is a sort of creative force in its own right.

But what about guilt?

I recently failed to participate in an event -- a protest -- that I felt very strongly about and later wished I had been a part of. The more I sought to justify (to myself) the reasons I had flaked out, the more ornate my reasoning became, until finally I was captivated by the extent to which my mind would go to protect me from the discomfort of my remorse. I felt frankly (and unexpectedly) like an oyster (which has never happened to me before), diligently coating a tiny displeasing grain until I had a smooth-shelled jewel, an opal drop of rationalization.

Of course, one could dispute the value of such a trinket -- are excuses, no matter how intricate, worth anything? Are they anything more than diversions at best? I don't have an answer. I was just astonished to find, at the heart of an emotion I had long viewed as entirely dispensable, a generative spark.